


Running, Returning

by ricketyrunt



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Past Rape/Non-con, Petyr is his own warning, Physical Abuse, R plus L equals J, Ramsay is his own warning, Slow Burn, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-01-20 14:22:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12434631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ricketyrunt/pseuds/ricketyrunt
Summary: Jon sends Sandor to be the Master-at-Arms of the still ruined Winterfell. Sandor's unique connection to both of Jon's sisters makes him the most loyal and trusted guardian of the family Jon is forced to leave behind as war rages beyond The Wall. How will the wolf-bitch and the little bird react to their reunion with the fearsome Hound?





	1. A Non Vow

“I beg pardon, but I’m afraid I don’t quite follow…your _grace._ ”

Jon idly tapped the heavy wooden desk in front of him, a wry smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He knew the scarred man’s disdain for titles and lordship, something he astutely understood himself. Jon had never aspired to ruling a kingdom, but people looked to him nonetheless. He had all confidence that the fearsome hound could keep Winterfell’s heirs and ragtag staff in check.

“You’re clever, Clegane. You know exactly what I want from you.”

Sandor tipped his head back, as if letting Jon’s request reach some deep part of his mind. He huffed out a great breath, his broad shoulders releasing some of the tension he had been holding in them “And what makes you think the little bird and the wolf pup will welcome their _good dog_ to their ancestral home?”

The thought of leaving the frozen hellscape that was the war beyond the wall was certainly enticing. While still nestled in what Sandor considered the coldest of the seven hells, Winterfell was still a castle with more enticing accommodations and company than Eastwatch or the rest of Westeros.

“I know that Sansa knew you as her only friend while betrothed to Joffrey and you kept Arya safe when it seemed Starks were being hunted in open season.” Jon leaned toward him, his eyes as dark and serious as they ever were. “I have no doubt that you can keep what’s left of my family safe in my stead. I’d also ask that you assume the duties of Winterfell’s master at arms. You’re one of the best swords left in this world and you’d do right to help up fortify our forces in the north.”

Sandor eyed the cocky bastard-turned-Targaryan, trying to smell out some ulterior motive. Did the she-wolf want his head? Did his little bird want a swan song from him? “What’s in it for me? Aside from pleasing _my king._ ”

“I think you’re getting the better end of the deal, Clegane.” Jon rose, confident he now had his man on the line, fetching horns and the flagon from the sideboard behind his desk. “You,” he placed a horn in front of Sandor, sloshing a generous pour of wine into the mug, a rare treat at the wall these days. “Get off that bum leg of yours, out of the life of a ranger and foot soldier, and into a position that will fortify Winterfell for the winter that we now find upon us.” The hardened sneer on Sandor’s face was not lost on Jon, who poured himself some of the Dornish vintage. “I mean you no disrespect. Your sword and expertise will be missed in my company, but whether you’ve willed it or not, you’ve proven a rare ally to the family I am forced to leave behind.”

Sandor fingered the horn while Jon spoke, weighing the temptation in the mug before him. He ran a thick finger absently around the rim, thinking of the hot springs that heated Winterfell without flame, thinking of smacking cocky young things around the yard with tourney swords, forging them into soldiers worthy of mail and honor. He didn’t dare think of forging knights-Gregor proved any man with a cock and a fist who could recite words to a half-wit Septon could join the hallowed ranks of the Kingsguard. No, he understood that what Jon offered him was so much more. The wars of the past decade would have lasting ramifications, changing the way power was held and forged in Westeros. Ancient families had shuddered and gone extinct since the Ned Stark lost his head and the Dragon Queen united the fearsome warriors of Essos against the antiquated royalty of Westeros. Jon’s true parentage had proven problematic for those who wished to see all traces of the Targaryan line vanish, but the truth was his dedication to the North was unflappable. He would gladly give Daenerys the Iron Throne in exchange for being able to unify and rule the Northmen who had come to call him king.

 Sandor snapped his teeth together, shooting Jon a grin, and downed the wine in one go. “I would be remiss not to point out that Arya had left me for dead on the side of the road.” He gave his bad leg a pat and nodded to the horn for Jon to refill. Jon made quick work of his own mug and refilled their drinks. “Seems you wolves would have little need for an old dog.”

“Aye,” Jon replied, a chuckle softening his features, “I’ve no doubt Arya can hold her own. But she knows only what she learned in Braavos and shows no interest in sharing the talents she developed for herself.” He tipped the horn and downed the wine in one go. “And I’m not sure I would want her to. She’s attained a level of…detachment that concerns me, if I’m completely honest.”

“And the little bird?”

“Sansa…” Jon let out a measured sigh as he met Sandor’s steely eyes. His face fell, a rare sign of defeat shaping the young warrior’s countenance. “Sansa is no longer the girl you knew at the capital, and I fear that whatever you think you’ve done to wrong her, those who have since offered her protection have led her to greater harm.”

Sandor winced at that, feeling a pang of disappointment clench his stomach. He had been relieved to learn that Sansa had survived the years since he had seen her, he had thought of her often, especially as he fought against death in the Trident, fought the undead beyond the wall. She had defined many a soul bearing confession on the Quiet Isle, the night he left her as Blackwater burned shaping his desire to let Sandor live and the Hound perish.  “I’d see to right that wrong before my end of days.” Sandor tipped the horn toward Jon, his own sort of promise, a non-vow,  before draining the cup and flipping it upside down on the desk before them. Restraint was a newly learned trick for the old dog.

“And that brings me to the preeminent threat at Winterfell.” Jon drank back his horn, choosing to refill it before he went on. “Lord Baelish has found himself quite comfortable by Sansa’s side. She seems to see him for what he is, but feels indebted to him for his instrumental role against Ramsay Snow.”

Sandor noticed the way Jon’s features hardened at the mention of the bastard of the Dreadfort. Jon had recounted their near loss to reclaim Winterfell, saved only by Littlefinger’s timely dispatch of the Knights of the Vale. The connection of his little bird to the deplorable _Lord_ Baelish was enough to cement the decision for him to return to Winterfell, if only to free her once again from some gilded cage.

“I’d be glad to hasten Petyr fucking Baelish’s meeting with the Stranger, if it pleases your grace.” Jon cracked a smile at that.

“It would please me greatly, Clegane.”


	2. Ghost, Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uncertainty colors the arrival of Sandor to the ruin of Winterfell.

Arya fisted the message from Jon’s raven, her hands shaking from a rage boiling within.

“He means to send us…the Hound.” Arya spoke at last, through clenched teeth. “For protection.” Sansa could hear her sister’s eyes rolling as she punctuated the thought, knowing that Arya’s last parting with the formidable warrior left him barely clinging to life, begging for her mercy.

Protection, the gift all men believed they could bestow to the two Stark daughters, but of which so few were truly capable. Sansa sighed, smoothing out the skirts of her dress, absently pulling at a stray black thread. “Do you believe it true, then?” Sansa asked, narrowing her eyes at her sister. Arya swore the man dead, though not at her hand, and yet Sansa mourned her lost friend each day in a quiet part of her mind and experience taught her that hope was often futile. “You swore him worm food last you laid eyes on him.”

That was not lost on Arya. She had believed him dead, but as her blade had not delivered the swift mercy he so shamelessly begged for, her experience dictated that far stranger things could happen. She let out a heft sigh and turned her gaze to Sansa, meeting her empty gaze at once. “I believe that Jon would not mislead us and he is familiar with the man in question, having traveled beyond the wall and to the capital with him, no less.” It was a struggle for Arya to form what came next, “He _trusts_ him.”

Sansa nodded, not entirely present. Her hands idly fingered the myriad objects adorning the shelves of the solar that had once belonged to her parents. She took a polished weirwood orb in hand and slowly rolled it between her palms as she considered the arrival of Sandor Clegane. How often had she thought back to that night at the Blackwater? Surely, it had been with less and less frequency as she aged out of the romantic notions she had foolishly associated with their last encounter. Somewhere between the Vale and the Dreadfort Sansa realized exactly what he meant as he demanded a song, the cold steel pressing against her neck. She did not look back on that night with the fear she had so foolishly shown him. So many men wanted her song, but so many men had not shown her the measured kindness that Sandor had at the capital. While her head was full of songs and courtesies as she tried to survive being a traitor’s daughter and a rebel’s sister in the midst of war, she had hardly considered how dangerous his kindness had been for him. She often thought on his boldness as he demanded Meryn Trant cease stripping and beating her before the court, even at his King’s behest. How he had saved her on the battlements, the serpentine steps, the bread riots…

“There’s a rider in the distance.”

Sansa snapped out of her fog of memory as Arya lifted a pale finger to the horizon. She traced the apparition's hazy form upon the foggy window pane. From the east, a large black beast topped with a large black rider surged toward Winterfell.

“Stranger.” The sisters spoke at once, taken aback at the other’s knowledge of the warhorse, locking eyes and suddenly knowing. While neither spoke much of the years they were apart, one thing suddenly became clear; Sandor Clegane was a welcome and reassuring presence to their newly won home.

“How do _you_ know?” Arya narrowed her eyes at Sansa, fully aware of the rare smile that played on her sister’s often dour lips. “What do _you_ know of the _fearsome_ Hound?”

Sansa let the smile fade, setting the weirwood orb back on the dusty shelf, moving toward the door.

“Only that the girl he tried to save is long gone.” Sansa disappeared into the darkened hallway, her words haunting Arya as she watched the ominous destrier closing the snowy distance.

 

 

Sandor had enough of the bloody north, the cold and the snow, by the time the broken spires of the towers of the once great Winterfell came into view. Jon had assured him that many repairs and fortifications had been made to the critical structure of the compound, but it was clear, even from the distance, that much remained to restore the damage done by the Iron Born. He stopped his old war horse, his last true friend in the world, and took in the vast grounds that lay before him on the horizon. He was still a few hours ride away, but the reality was upon him that by nightfall he’d be back in the company of Arya _and_ Sansa Stark. True, he’d never cared much for the opinions of women, but these two had stuck in his paw. Wounds that had festered and itched without relief since his near death in the Trident.

He put his heels to Stranger and tried to quiet his mind as Winterfell went from distant to looming.

 

He scoffed at the boys that dared call themselves guard at the gates of his destination. Even with the letter her proffered from Jon, after some scoffing and scowling, they were wary to let the infamous scarred man through. Sandor realized that Winterfell had not been safe from enemy clutches for long, but really, he was just an old man atop an old horse wishing to seek sanctuary from the King of the North. But his name, and more importantly _his face_ preceded him.

“We want no trouble here, Hound.” One of the guards spat, his ugly face even uglier as he sneered at Sandor. He would wager the boy barely an age of six and ten, pimply and scrawny as a whip. The boy beside him was no older, through more portly and some might say more handsome. “We have no want for lost Lannister dogs.”

“I’ve been no one’s dog as long as the two of you have had hair on your balls. I’m sent here by Jon Snow, Jon Targaryan, King of the North himself. I’m to take on a position here at his request.” He pulled the missive out of a dirt tunic pocket and waved it at the two boys holding the gate. “You’d be wise to let this old dog pass.”

“We’ve received no word here from his Grace. He’d certainly send ahead of your arrival to assure against such… _difficulties,_ ser.” The huskier guard seemed less cocky and willing to incite the ire of a man such as Clegane, but he seemed to sense his exhaustion and lack of pretense. “I’d beg your leave to check with the ladies of Winterfell before letting you through the gate.”

Sandor drew a deep breath, tipping his head toward the sky. His fate now rested with those he had so greatly failed and who had no reason to trust him. “Aye, if you must. Though the little wolf and the little bird will share your reservations, I’m sure.”

He tucked the useless note Jon had forced upon him back into his tunic. Had the young king not thought to send ahead for his arrival? Was this just a trap for the girls to win their retribution against him? He thought his head might adorn a battlement one day, though he wagered the Red Keep or even Casterly Rock would be his haunt. He ran his fingers through Stranger’s mane, his own sort of goodbye, feeling the judging eyes of Winterfell upon him.

Just as the pudgy guard went to take his leave, Sandor noticed several heads atop tall pikes. He saw plenty of bloodied and contorted faces around Winterfell’s balustrade, but one head lacked a face, and for that Sandor’s blood ran cold. He had seen many unsettling deaths and gruesome fates in his life as a sworn shield and warrior, but there was something about a faceless head that gave him pause.

“It seems I should have given you the gift after all, Clegane.” Arya’s voice carried through the gate as she waved the boys aside and beckoned them to open the gate. “I never thought to see you again, but somehow it pleases me that you’ve made your way to Winterfell.”

“My lady,” the uglier guard began, “I think it best we turn the Hound away or take him captive. A right, fearsome man he has proven to be.”

Arya cocked her brow at the sentry before turning her steely gaze back to his. Their eyes must look so much alike, he thought, so full of bloodlust and rage. And sadness. There would always be loss for those like them.

“What say you, Hound? Shall I let you pass or give you the gift you so desired from me?”

Sandor met her unwavering eyes and let the hint of a smile play on his ruined lips. “I’m sent by your bastard _king_ brother to turn these whelps,” he laid his cold stare upon the inexperienced guards, “into soldiers of winter.”  He saw she made no move to let him pass or break his gaze. He sighed, lowering his head in defeat, believing himself so stupid to think the gates of Winterfell would open without incident. “Unless you crave my ugly head upon your battlements.”

Arya stood before him, seemingly more imposing than a castle gate, taking stock of how he’d changed in the years they spent apart. A sly smile formed on her mouth, finding him adequate or pitiful, he wasn’t sure.  She winked at him, deviously, before stepping back and seemingly ushering him through with a wide sweep of her arm. “Welcome, Sandor Clegane, to Winterfell.”


	3. A Room With a View

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Stark sisters and Sandor try to make sense of the past.

Arya enjoyed seeing her former captor squirm atop his aged battle mount, wondering if his head meant more to her than her brother’s will. She decided to let him pass, having long left him off her list of names and recently intrigued by Sansa’s reaction to his arrival. If nothing else, she would entertain herself by pitting the two against one another until their truth spilled forth. She knew he had spilled poison about Sansa that day in the Trident to get her to quicken his end, but was there a truth buried there? Had he desired her sister? Had he loved her, even? Was it not Arya’s own ransom that motivated him but some noble deed he thought might please Sansa? She stared at his back as he removed the saddle and his belongings from Stranger, Sandor giving the beast encouraging pats as he subjected his mount to a thorough and probing assessment. He must have felt her gaze upon him as he turned his scarred face to look at her.

“What do you want, little wolf?” The edge was still in his voice, but it lacked the same ferocity she had once known.  His good brow was cocked toward her, hand still entwined in Stranger’s mane. His face suddenly clouded with shame as he met her unwavering confidence. That was new. “I’m already in your debt for ignoring my pleas for mercy on the road, it seems you’ve held your own, but I’d like to make good to you and your family for all the wrongs I’ve done.” Casting a forlorn glance to no empty window of the keep in particular, he added, “Truly. To you and Sansa, both.”

She noticed his shoulders slumped and his gait was pained by a limp in his left leg. He was not the fearsome Hound she left behind, but an apparition wishing to make amends to be free. Arya softened then, knowing she had bested him once, and seeing that he harbored no ill will toward that victory. He seemed almost proud in the way that he looked at her.

“I don’t want your ugly head,” she said finally, kicking at a stone before her, very much the child he had always made her feel. “I don’t think she’ll want it either.” Arya pointed her chin to a cluster of windows that overlooked the practice yards, seeming to answer a question his eyes asked. “Though I wouldn’t expect to find the same girl you once knew.”

Sandor didn’t turn to her at that, rather lifted his brow toward the horse he had set to brushing after their long ride. “Aye, we’ve all changed, little wolf.” He pointed a knowing glance her way, her new-found prowess not lost on him. “I’d not bet for the man so foolish as to challenge you now.” His face twisted with a proud grin.

“I find few foes worth my concern.” The words escaped her so flatly he had to repeat them to himself. She was without emotion and quiet as a solemn snowfall. But he knew better than to take that for peace. Sometimes the calm frightened him more than the storm. “But Sansa, she’s found her own strength in her own way. I’d not expect a warm welcome, if I were you. I’d not expect anything, if I’m to be completely honest.”

He wanted to ask her why, as if they way he left Sansa in King’s Landing hadn’t been traumatizing enough, he felt that there was something else. Maybe something that had nothing to do with his sudden reappearance in their lives.  What had her life looked like in the years since the Blackwater? His had been no picnic, he doubted the pretty little lady had fared well at the groping hands of all the lords and knights that paved the way from King’s Landing to Winterfell. He simply nodded to Arya and offered, “I’ll not bother the little bird.”

The moniker landed a blow to her resolve. Arya saw the sadness that had crept into his grey eyes at the mention of her sister. He had returned his full attention to his horse, seeming to forget that she stood behind him. She wanted to ask what he was to Sansa, wanted to know why they seemed so resigned to keeping out of each other’s way when all she wanted to do was poke and prod and pester him. She looked up to the windows she knew Sansa must be looking through. She couldn’t see her sister, not from the angle she found herself at, but she knew she was there nonetheless, sizing up their new master-at-arms for herself.

If Sansa was his little bird, what did that make him to her?

 

 

Sansa saw his gaze turn upward to the windows of her solar and she found herself retreating into the shadows and out of sight. She wasn’t sure how to approach him now that she knew he lived, saw him for the flesh and blood he was, after all these years between them. He would be disappointed in her, she knew, having heeded so little of the wisdom he had offered her. She was twice wedded, many times betrothed, and destined to be the plaything of all those that seemed pursue her hand. She was a stupid little girl, who fell into the traps of men like Petyr Baelish, seeking the happiness promised to pretty young maidens in the songs she used to sing. But she was no more a child, a maiden, or chirping little bird.

She fixed her icy blue gaze at her hands, wringing them in frustration, feeling as though she now had to answer for herself to the man who once promised to protect her. How could she tell him that in her foolish fear of his scars and anger she had refused his hand and instead fed herself to the most fearsome monsters of the seven kingdoms? How she had trusted another drunken fool with her safety, her honor to _Lord_ Baelish and how she had found herself wedded and bedded to Ramsay Bolton? Would he even know what the bastard of the Dreadfort had been capable of? What he had done to Sandor’s little bird?

She choked back the thought of being _his_ little bird. She knew a cage when she saw it now and was not like to make that mistake again. He had never wanted to cage her, he wanted to help her learn to fly and instead she found herself flitting from one cage to another until she found her childhood home her jail and a handsome lord her captor. She shook the thoughts away and set to find a task to steady her hands. She had gnawed her once lovely nails down to the skin, the edges often bloodied and subject to her incessant picking and fidgeting.

 Her breath came in consuming waves, rattling her body as she expelled the air. She grasped at the laces of her dress, trying frantically to ease the tension around her chest. Her vision started to blur around the edges and she fought to steady herself, to steady the room around her, grasping the heavy edge of the desk. Her legs were too weak to hold her and she felt her body crumpling to the floor, fading into darkness.


	4. Just Hold on to Me

A maid had sought the maester upon finding the lady of Winterfell unresponsive on the floor of her solar. The same maid had ventured out into the courtyard to inform Arya of her sister’s condition, begging the little wolf’s pardon as frantic panting racked her slight frame.

“My lady….the lady Sansa….she…she…” The young woman clutched her side through the rough spun brown dress, having run from one end of Winterfell to another to tend to her mistresses’ needs. “I found her on the floor of her chambers, my lady. Breathing but…not awake. Maester Samwell is with her now, trust in that, but I thought you’d want to see to her.”

Sandor couldn’t keep his protective gaze from lifting to Arya, wordlessly imploring her to take him with her when she attended to her fallen sister. Arya gave him a slight nod, allowing him to fall in step with her, their hurried footfalls descending into the keep.

Arya pushed past the maid that had raised the alarm and mindlessly reached for Sandor’s hand, pulling him through unfamiliar corridors and stairwells until she led him to Sansa’s chambers. He held his breath as Arya turned the knob and forced the door open despite the quiet pleas of the timid maid. “Quiet woman, I mean her no harm.” He stilled the maid with his even tone and leveling gaze, granting them passage without her shrieks. She mumbled a courtesy at him and shuffled wordlessly behind them, waiting for useful instruction.

“Sam, what has happened? Is she alright?” Sandor found himself amused at the concern Arya showed her older sister, remembering the squabbles the two girls seemed incessantly absorbed in at the capital. What he saw now was genuine concern from the little wolf, pressing her hands into Sansa’s as the elder sister struggled to regain her composure. “Sansa, what is it?”

The portly maester smiled gently at Arya and offered some of his kindness to Sandor, before returning his gaze to his charge. “She will be fine, a bit overwhelmed by the coming of our newest guest, I’m sure, but she will be fine.” Maester Samwell never broke his friendly affect, as if knowing the scarred man that stood before him posed no threat to the young women before him. “Her lack of appetite in recent weeks paired with her restlessness are surely to blame.”

Sansa flushed as her eyes fluttered open to meet his gaze, knowing that her fragile emotional state was so apparent for the man she wanted so desperately to seem strong. His hand went to grasp hers, without thought or consequence. Arya glared at him for that gesture, but was distracted by what Sansa said next. “I thought you a ghost,” Sansa murmured, pulling his cold hand to her lips as she spoke, “I thought you would only ever haunt my dreams, Sandor Clegane.”

“Little bird…” His voice was hardly a whisper, his eyes stinging as she reached for him, pressed kisses into his palm, his wrist, his burned forearm. He closed his eyes and bent his head down to hers. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know…” The words caught in his throat and he found himself uncertain what he was apologizing for, what exactly she was hurting from, what he could have saved her from.

“You didn’t know there were worse men than you, who wished to silence the chirping little bird.” She answered for him. “Nor did I.”

He seemed to break at that. The tears fell unbidden from both of them, to the surprise of Arya and Maester Samwell alike. The maid silently excused herself as the scarred man and her fainted lady held each other, sobs racking their huddled frames.

 

 

Settling Stranger into the stables had proven less a challenge than Arya expected. It seemed to her that the hound and his fearsome mount had been softened somewhere along the way. She left him in Sansa’s chambers, at her sister’s insistence, and found herself getting his things settled while he comforted Sansa. She felt it queer to leave the hound to oversee her distraught and broken sister, but it was how their reunion unfolded. Once they two met, the world seemed to disappear and Arya felt no right to be there as they groveled to one another for forgiveness. She understood _the hound’s_ need for penitence, but her sister? What debt could she owe the brute? She bawled her eyes out to him, blathering about being a foolish little girl, for not seeing the truth, for not seeing him for who he was. He seemed to seek her forgiveness for a baser but more common crime, the unchecked desire he had allowed himself to feel for her. Had he acted upon it? Arya couldn’t be sure. She was suddenly sure that his interest in her own safety all those moon turns on the road had been less about her value as a Stark traded on the open market as it was about securing her sister’s favor. Proving his worth to her, as it were.

She offered the warhorse an apple on the flat of her palm with little hesitation. Stranger pushed his muzzle against Arya’s shoulder before sniffing at her hand. “Come on, old boy,” she pushed gently, raising the treat to him. “I know you remember me…”

As if understanding her words, Stranger snorted his assent and tentatively pulled the apple into his mouth and made quick work of it. He followed his loud chomping with a flutter of tiny nips and nibbles to her sleeve. Arya giggled at that, pulling her shoulder toward her face, reaching out to pet his nose. “Aye, you’re a good boy, Stranger.” She let her hands fall over him, singing his praises, pleased that she had bested the hound’s stallion.

She latched his pen with a grin before turning toward the saddlebags she had left in the yard, meaning to bring them to their rightful owner. But Sandor was there, eyeing her approvingly. The blush that took her face and neck betrayed her pride and she stood before him with all the defiance she could muster. “Don’t.” Her cool voice was a warning he heeded, dipping to pick up his bags, a proud smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll not have you blubbering over me the same way you did in there.” She hardened her gaze and set her jaw, pointing her attention toward Sansa’s solar. His gaze fell upon his road worn boots before he raised a timid smile to her, his scars bunching under the fall of his dark hair.

“We can start where we left off, little wolf, “ he offered. She smiled kindly at that, offering a wordless nod. “I mean only to help you in your efforts to rebuild your home.” He swung a muscled arm around the training yard, cocking his good brow at her. “With your approval, of course…” He smirked, contorting his already ugly face, adding “my lady.

“I’m no lady as I trust you are still not a ser.” Arya snorted. “But we’ve a need for a strong warrior who can turn these small folk into true warriors. Aside from the Knights of the Vale, we’ve no real army. Just…” she gestured around her, to the throngs of peasants and wildlings that filled the courtyard, “bodies.”

“And the _Lord Protector_ of the Vale, what of him?”

Arya’s grey eyes turned to stone and she measured her words carefully. “Bronze Yohn Royce commands the knights in our favor now. As for Lord Baelish,” she cocked her head, lifting her shoulders with a satisfied grin playing on her lips, “you’d be wise to visit the battlements and pay respects to my lady sister.”

Sandor stopped a pace behind her, remembering the faceless head on the pike. _“Littlefinger.”_ It sounded like a curse falling from his lips, widening the grin that graced Arya’s face.

“He proved himself…problematic in the North.” She offered. Sandor didn’t disagree. He knew the influence he wielded as Master of Coin and Whores in the capital. He had spies in every corner and made every move with calculated certainty. What he had clearly underestimated was the Stark girls strength and allegiance to their family above the politics of the throne.

“He was instrumental in your father’s downfall in King’s Landing,” he offered without explanation, glancing sideways at her. He knew he didn’t need to affirm the decision to rid themselves of a known pest, but the knowledge and his past had weighed him down all the same.

“If only that were all.” She locked her gaze on him, saying no more, leaving him cold under her eyes. Arya was leading him to his chambers, a mere floor away from Sansa’s solar, wrenching his gut with uncertain feelings. The room was large, heated well enough by the hot springs, and afforded him a view over the grounds leading to the Godswood. “You’ll dine at our table, as Master of Arms, as my sister would want. Her mood might be a touch out of sorts, but her table manners are still fit for a queen.”

“I’m grateful to find any place in your home, little wolf.”

“Wolves, birds, _hounds_ …” Arya teased gently, a smile lighting her face. “What a motley crew we make.”

She left him to take in his surroundings, the events of the morning, the questions that burned on his tongue. He heaved a heavy sigh and fell onto the pallet beneath the window. His eyes had shut before his head hit the pillow.


	5. It's Time That We Began

It was nearly a sennight before Sansa sent for Sandor to see her in her chambers. Their first meeting had been fraught with emotion and overwhelmed her to a degree she had not expected. They engaged each other at daily meals and in passing with pleasant small talk and guarded smiles, but neither pressed for more. Sansa had sent a raven to Jon, assuring him of their guest’s welcome arrival and Sandor’s seamless transition into the role of master-at-arms in Winterfell. Sansa did not disclose the panic that had swept over her at his arrival or the untamed waves of guilt and remorse that set upon her unexpectedly throughout most days. Maester Samwell assured her that she only needed rest and she implored him not to reveal her distress to Jon, surely the war beyond the wall was enough strain for the young man. She would acclimate, things would settle within her, and before anyone was the wiser, Sandor Clegane would fade into the daily routine that kept her home buzzing and alive.

She was embroidering in her solar one afternoon when she heard the clanging of swords in the yard, near enough to her window, to know that he had truly settled in. He was not shy in schooling the green boys that had been sent to them from Wintertown, unleashing his tongue when the lessons doled out by his wooden swords failed to bring the message home.

“And what of live steel? What will you do when I’ve got the real thing against your throat, about to snuff you out?” She spied him in the yard, a massive boot rooting a young man to the dusty earth, the tourney sword poking the chest of the boy writhing beneath him. And he really was just a boy, probably no more than two and ten, but she knew he would grow to be a valuable protector of her home under Sandor’s tutelage.

The boy made several pathetic attempts to throw the massive man off him which only elicited a roaring laugh from Sandor Clegane. “You’re beat boy, your mistake was landing on your back like a common whore.” He removed his boot and let the boy up, assuming his fighting stance, growling “again, and this time stay on your fucking feet.”

Sansa smiled to herself, proud of the patient man Sandor seemed to have become, even if his bark was still fierce. Hindsight, for all its bittersweet comfort, had proven to her that the truth was often hard to face, so what good was courtesy? Sandor was nothing if not honest and time had proven that a rare trait indeed.  She remained in the window, watching him best the young man again and again, a roar of laughter with every victory. His head suddenly tilted toward her, his eyes locking with hers. She didn’t pull away, instead pressing her long fingers to the glass to acknowledge him. He smiled up at her, dipping his head slightly, a simple gesture that set her heart thrumming loudly in her chest.

“Magda?” Sansa called to the young serving girl, flitting about her chamber, tending to a hundred invisible needs at once. Magda stopped immediately, bowing her head in deference, awaiting her lady’s command. “Will you send Sandor Clegane to see me when he is finished training in the yard?”

“As you wish, My lady.” The young girl dipped in curtsy before turning to do as she was bid.

“And Magda?” Sansa called after her. The girl spun immediately, well trained and eager to please. “See that he has a bath waiting in his chambers before seeking my audience.”

“Aye, my lady.”

Sansa set to busying herself, waiting for the sound of Sandor’s heavy footfall outside her door. She had settled into mending a few of Arya’s tunics before the familiar sound sent her heart pounding. Her door was open, but he seemed fixed to the entry way, awaiting her invitation.

“You sent for me, little bird?”

She beckoned him to her with a smile, thrown shyly over her shoulder and a slight wave of her hand. She was seated before the crackling hearth. Pushing the pile of tunics out of her lap to give him her full attention. She watched as he sized up the armchair to her right, deciding the old thing would buckle beneath his weight, and settled instead on the bear skin catching the heat cast from the crackling fire. She was surprised to see him so close to the hearth, and decided to join him on the floor, teasing a smile from him as she slid to his side. With a look, she asked him to retrieve the flagon of wine from the table next to the chair she intended for him. He poured a glass and offered it to her first, waiting for her to break the comfortable silence between them.

She tipped the wine back and drank deeply, passing the back of her hand over her mouth before offering the cup back to him. As he drank, she tilted her head, still smiling at him. “Tell me what happened to you, my old friend. Where did you go that night that the city burned?”

He winced at the though of that night, of how much he must have frightened her. He stank of death and desperation and she had been the only thing of light he could cling to. He fixed his sad eyes on her and began, telling her of the months he spent on the run, killing every Gold Coat he encountered, offering her sister—her wild sister, he stressed—protection and what guidance he could. He kept her from certain death at the Twins and recounted how they had been too late to meet with her aunt Lysa, before her untimely death. He saw her face fall at that, bringing the wine to her lips again.

“So close,” she told him, speaking into his eyes. “You were so close to saving me again…”

The story fell from her red stained lips, swollen and worried by her teeth as she tried to force back the sobs that threatened to rack her at any moment. She told him about Joffrey’s wedding, how Baelish had spirited her away to be his bastard daughter, a pawn for his own entry into the game. She confided how Petyr had killed her aunt, poisoned her cousin, and took liberties with her no father should feel entitled to with their own daughter. She told him about how Baelish had promised her she would one day return to reclaim her childhood home from the Boltons. Her voice faltered when it came time to speak of Winterfell. Sandor had sat as still as possible through her tale, clenching his fists when he felt impotent anger rising within him.

“How is it you’ve returned to Winterfell, little bird?” His voice was low and gentle, no hint of urgency in his tone. He lifted a hand to her face in the firelight, tracing her cheek bones with the rough pad of his thumb. “I’ll kill those left who have wronged you or beg the red god to bring them back so I might seek my own vengeance against them.” She sighed into his hand, leaning her cheek into his touch. “What have they done to break my little bird?”

She let out the sobs that had been bubbling within her, following his lead as he pulled her shaking body into his lap. He wrapped her tightly in his embrace and stroked her hair as the tears poured from her. When she tried to speak, he covered her lips with chaste kisses. When she balled her fists in his tunic, he ignored the way her tiny hands beat his chest in search of release. When she finally stilled, he held her all the same, watching the fire die in the hearth as they drifted off to sleep.

 

Sandor woke before her, catching the day’s first light as it broke through the open drapes. They had fallen to the fire warmed bear skin in a tangle of arms and legs sometime in the night. He attempted to gently disentangle himself from her iron embrace, but saw it would be easier just to lift her up and take her to her bed. She stirred a bit in his arms as he opened the door that led from her solar to her bed chamber. He leaned down, trying to gently deposit her in the generous pile of furs atop her feather bed. Her grasp suddenly became more insistent, pulling him to the bed atop her. Her eyes were wide and fixed on his, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson against the milky slope of her neck. She lifted her fingers to his lips, dragging her thumbs over his mouth, scars and all. He moaned softly, kissing her fingers as they traced over him. His own hands held her tightly to him, their chests heaving against one another.

“Come to me again tonight,” she said, barely above a whisper, fresh tears welling in her bright blue eyes.  “I want to tell you the rest, but…” She seemed to choke on the words as they rose in her throat. He shook his head, skimming his lips over hers.

“You’ll tell me when you’re ready,” he offered, simply, resolutely. “Be it tonight or in a fortnight, I’m going nowhere and I’m yours to command.” She buried her tear stained face in his hands, leaving tiny kisses and nibbles over his palms. He smoothed her hair away from her face as her eyes fluttered shut. “Sleep now, little bird.” And she did as he commanded and fell into the deep dreamless sleep that had eluded her for many moons.

Sandor stood a while longer at the foot of her bed, watching peaceful breaths roll through her frame. She was still fully dressed from the day before, but he could see how much a woman she had become. She was too skinny, but she had curves he had not remembered the child he knew having. Her face was more defined, angular even, and her eyes had deepened to the color of troubled seas. He realized then that for all his best efforts at court, her innocence had been stolen from her, piece by piece, after he left her behind. He had thought himself her biggest threat, the lust that had risen within him had threatened his resolve to protect the girl the night the Blackwater burned, but he was not his brother. He was not capable of taking that which was not his, tainting the only beautiful thing he had known in his miserable life. But there she was, a broken woman now, and his guilt had shifted. He could have saved her but instead he ran way like the coward he always knew he was.

Defeated, Sandor stole out of her room, softly pulling the heavy wooden door closed behind him. He rested his head on the frame for a moment before steeling himself. Straightening up into his full height, he pushed his shoulders out and made his way down the hall, as if he had purpose there. He could feel the ghost of a white Kingsguard cloak flaring out behind him as he left the little bird’s chambers behind. He was truly no knight, he had failed her worse than the others, and he chased the memory of the Red Keep away.

He was deep into his own self-reprimand when he heard the soft footfalls behind him. He snapped his head to attention, feeling the familiar prick of cold steel against his neck.

“The little wolf still has her fucking needle, eh?”

“The Hound is still sniffing around my sister’s skirts, it seems.”

He clenched his jaw and turned around to face Arya, her face as serious as ever. She pressed Needle against his cheek now, dragging with a pressure that threatened to draw blood with the slightest change of her wrist. He didn’t know what to say, what was expected of him in that moment, how to rationalize leaving Sansa’s room at first light. So, he kept his mouth shut and let the little wolf bare her teeth.

“I’ll split you, nose to navel, if you so much as look at her in a way I do not like.” Her eyes softened when she saw the same look of fierce protection in his own eyes. She lowered Needle from his face and settled the blade into her belt before returning her gaze to him. “She’s barely held on since _the bastard_ and I’m running out of siblings, Hound.”

He nodded, bringing one of his massive hands to her slender shoulder. He squeezed her gently, trying to reassure her that they were on the same side. “I’d like to not fail her, or you, again. Whatever I have left to give belongs to your family. I can do that much with the time the Stranger sees fit to give me.”

Arya nodded, tilting her head down the hall toward the service corridor. “Come, let’s raid the kitchen before the rest of the castle wakes.” Her eyes gleamed with mischief and he let out a quiet laugh as she pulled him down the hall, very much like the girl she still was.


	6. Numb

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for the kudos and kind words so far! :)
> 
> More serious talk of past abuse to come in this chapter, just a heads up.

 

It was well into midday when Sansa finally opened her eyes again. She didn’t like to sleep late, not that she really slept anymore, and felt a pang of dread ring through her.  She bolted upright, eager to set about her routine and checking in around the castle. She pulled at the ties of the simply wrapped dress she wore, shaking it off as she walked to the wash basin in the corner of her room. The basin was situated behind an ornate wooden screen, shielding her from the rest of the room. She didn’t hear the soft knock on the door as she dipped the wash cloth into the tepid water and vigorously dragged it over her face. The door creaked open, snapping her head up from the water, suddenly aware of her thin shift and the scars that twisted along her back and shoulders, down to the backs of her ankles. She was not surprised to see Sandor enter her room, a sizeable tray of food in one hand. She was frozen.

He looked around the room, a frown playing on his lips as he failed to see her. He flopped down on the massive chest at the foot of her bed, letting out a sigh as he contemplated the food he had brought to share. He idly popped a grape into his mouth, sweeping his gaze over the room again, taking stock of his surroundings this time, finally passing over the bare feet peeking out from below the wooden screen. He saw her finally, standing behind the carved wood in her nightshift, her pretty mouth agape. He smirked, popping another grape in his mouth, reclining against her bed.

“You’re safe, little bird, I come to break bread with you, nothing more. You’re such a skinny little thing now.” He could see her blushing even behind the screen. She finally moved, dropping the cloth into the water with a soft plop.

“I don’t want you to see me.” Her voice was shaking and small, the voice of the girl he knew so long ago. “He’s made me so ugly, Sandor.” He could hear the tears before they even left her eyes and the smile fell from his face. He had been in a playful mood, having spent the morning with the little wolf, stirring trouble in the kitchens and schooling the boys in the yard. He had hoped to bring some mirth to the sad girl he had left in the morning, hoping some rest would set her right.

“I want to come to you now, if you allow it." He stood up slowly, unbuckling his sword belt, leaning it against the trunk. He kept his gaze on the trembling girl, acting much the way he knew to approach a wounded animal. He didn’t want her to run away or push him away, though he would leave her if she asked. But she made no sound or move to get away. His heart sank in his chest when she stayed fixed to her spot. “Sansa, I won’t accept silence from you, not after all this time. You don’t need to tell me what’s happened, but I'd have you have to chirp to me, little bird.”

He started to close the distance between them, watching for any sign from her, but none came. He ran his hand on the edge of the screen, giving her one last chance to shout at him to get away from her or to run and hide. But she made no moves, no sounds of protest. He reached from the screen to her hand, gently trailing his fingers to her elbow, pulling her gently from her hiding place. He was unnerved by her shaking, bringing his hands to her shoulders, rubbing the tops of her arms gently as he fixed her with a questioning gaze.

“What is it, little bird? Why do you tremble?”

Fat tears escaped her eyes as she squeezed them shut, biting her lip to keep from falling apart completely. She took his hands from her shoulders, breathing in deeply to still her quivering. She met his eyes finally, taking a bit of his courage for herself. “Sit there, on the bed, by the trunk.” Her voice was hoarse and barely loud enough to be commanding, but he nodded and did as she asked. She sat on the chest, pushing the nightshift off her shoulders to pool around her waist.

He’d been so fixated on coaxing her out of her hiding place that he had not seen the scars licking her narrow shoulders. Bare to him now, he saw the map of cruelty that marred her back. Thick pink and silver ropes twined and snapped over her shoulders and down the protruding bones of her spine. He saw how completely she had been whipped and cut, hardly a bit of her milky white skin remained untouched. He had not been prepared.

“Sansa…” It was more a plea than her name as he struggled to find something, anything to say. He reached a tentative hand out to touch her, running his index finger gently over the largest of the scars. She drew in a sharp breath, not from pain, he knew, but from the intimacy of his touch. He doubted she had let anyone touch her since the cruel hand that marked her so. He placed his palms, fingers wide, over her back, covering most of her shoulders. He slid forward slowly, giving her every opportunity to stop him, put distance between them when she wanted, but she let him draw her into his lap. He pressed his forehead against her neck, tracing every line.

“He would whip me whenever he came to my bed.” Her tone was cool when she finally broke the silence, her hands gripping his knees beside her. “It seemed to get him excited, get his blood up, while he decided how to defile me. The more I struggled, the slower he would take me, almost like a husband should.” She let out a bitter chuckle at that. “Those were the nights he sought to put an heir in me. Some nights I was just too exhausted to fight, so bloodied and sore and humiliated. Those were the nights he wanted to make me hurt.”

She could feel Sandor tense beneath her, his hands hovering over her, his heart racing in his chest. Her shoulders sagged forward and he wrapped his arms around her, pressing his own scarred cheek to her back.

“I prayed for a child, I cursed my moonblood every time it came.”

“Would he have stopped at a child?”

“He told me that when I gave him a son, he would set me free.” He felt her tears slipping down her face onto his arms. “He would let me escape, into the Wolfswood I grew up running through with my brothers, and he would let the dogs out to hunt. He assured me he kept them hungry, that they would find me and rip me to shreds. What use was I once he’d have the rightful Stark heir? I was too ugly, he said, too scarred and too broken to be the Queen of the North.”

“You could never be ugly,” Sandor rasped into her hair, his warm breath prickling the skin of her neck. He lifted her with no effort, laying her gently on the unmade bed. She made no effort to cover herself, letting his kind grey eyes wash over her. “When I first saw you, outside in the yard, lined up with all your brothers and sisters, I thought you the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.” He tugged at the shift, pulling it down her long, marred legs, leaving her in her small clothes. He kept his eyes fixed on her, waiting for a signal to stop, but it never came. He laid down beside her, propped up on his elbow, dragging his touch over her legs, her stomach, her collarbones. “You were so young, you’re still young, but you were a child then. But you held yourself like a lady, you took every bit of cruelty they doled out in court with your head high. I saw so much of what I had lost in you.” He pressed a kiss into her neck, eliciting a contented sigh from her. “So earnest, so innocent…” He pressed his lips to her jaw, tilting her head back with his thumb.

“I’ve nothing left to give, Sandor. They’ve taken everything from me.” Her eyes were dry and fiercely serious as she looked at him. “How could anyone love me now?”

“You think I don’t know about scars, little bird?” His voice wasn’t unkind, but her face fell as she realized what she had said and to whom she had spoken the careless words. She turned on her side to face him, her hands cupping his face. His stormy eyes closed to her touch.

“I don’t see them anymore.” She ran her thumbs over scars, the unburned skin, his lips, his brow. “I see a man who is kind and gentle with me, a man who risked his life to save me and my sister, my only true friend in this world.” She lay kisses over his cheeks, lingering over the ruined side of his mouth. “I see the only man I’ve ever loved.”

“I’ve not been a good man to you, you shouldn’t love me, Sansa.” He pulled her closer to him, matching her chaste kisses with his own. “But Gods know I could never love another.” She let out a soft moan as his tongue parted her lips. He let his hand drift to the small of her back, his other tangled in her auburn waves. She met every movement of his mouth, returned every soft nibble of her lips, letting his heat radiate up through her. He didn’t push for more, she was glad for it, but no man had ever kissed her in such a way. A wave of heat washed over her and settled between her legs, causing her to pull away, gasping for air. Her eyes opened slowly, meeting his soft gaze with a smile.

“Do you have anywhere you need to be? Are they waiting for you in the yard?” Sansa rose, draping her long legs over the side of the bed, reaching skyward in a deep stretch.

“Are you trying to get rid of me, then?” He smirked at her, running his hand over her side softly. He flicked his fingers over the sensitive skin under her arm, causing her to smack his hand away with a girlish giggle.  His tone turned serious then. “I’ll leave you in peace, if that’s what you want.”

Sansa rose to stoke the dying fire in the hearth before adding another log, watching the flames lick and hiss over the wood. “I’d like it if you stayed.” She turned to look at him over her shoulder and he nodded, patting the furs beside him, beckoning her to return to his side. She fetched the forgotten tray of food he had brought for her and settled in against him, her head burrowed against his shoulder. They stayed silent for a while, picking at the food together, offering each other bits of fruit or cheese, sharing smiles and soft kisses. As the afternoon wasted away, they drifted off to sleep, forgetting the world outside her door.


	7. When I Disappear

Arya was concerned by her sister’s absence from their daily tasks around Winterfell. Sansa wasn’t in the Great Hall to break fast or to hear the concerns of her people and the progress of repairs around the castle. She wasn’t pestering Maester Samwell or poking around what was left of the library tower. Come to think of it, Arya realized she hadn’t seen the Hound past mid-morning. She had been entertained (and dare she say proud?) to watch him training in the yard, beating down the new crop of guard recruits until they were too tired to lift their wooden swords. After he’d had his fill knocking the boys around, his booming laughter echoing through the yard, she’d lost track of him.

Arya pushed Sandor’s chamber door open, finding the modest room clean, but vacant. Arya took stock of the neat piles of oiled mail near the too-clean hearth, letting her hands drift over a stack of worn books on the mantle. The books, though some were rather tattered and even charred, they were stacked neatly, marked with feathers where a concept had struck him. She set her path to Sansa’s chambers, knowing she’d find them there.

Arya rapped her knuckles softly on the door before opening it quietly. There was a low fire burning in the hearth, casting the sleeping pair in a faint orange glow as the daylight died on the horizon. Arya approached the fire first, adding another log as softly as she could, before turning to the bed. Sansa was curled into the Hound’s chest, her hand clasped in his, laying idly over his heart. She was draped in a warm fur with his other arm around her shoulder. Arya noticed then that he was fully dressed, only his heavy boots sat beside the bed, a tray of picked over cheese and bread carelessly balanced atop them. _Good_ , she thought at that. _At least he’s made her eat something._  She noticed that then he was awake, his grey eyes upon her own, trying to gauge her reaction to their current state of intimacy and Sansa’s undress. Arya gave him a soft smile and a nod, pressing her finger to her lips, urging him to keep quiet. Before she turned to leave them completely, she dragged that same finger across her throat and pointed to him. Sandor let out a soft chuckle at that and whispered, “Aye, I know you’d have my head.”

Arya nodded again, turning on her heel, and disappearing into the darkened hallway. She couldn’t help but wonder what her lady mother would think of her eldest, most perfect daughter curled up with the Hound.

 

 

Sandor woke in the night to the shifting weight on the bed beside him, as Sansa drew a robe over her shoulders and drew a pair of fur lined house shoes from beneath her bed. She stumbled a bit, angling her leg awkwardly to slip one on, and came down beside him with a heavy _oompf._

“And where is the Lady of Winterfell off to at this time of night?”

She smirked at him, leaning over to plant a gentle kiss on the knuckles of his hand that she had disentangled her own from. “To pillage the kitchens, perhaps.” Her eyes glinted with a streak of mischief he’d never seen in her before, something he knew all to well from the eyes of the bolder of the Stark girls.

“And a flagon of wine for your sword?”

“Perhaps,” her smile faded a bit. “Though the last time I remember you being in your cups in my room, you were not as kind as I’d like you to be now.”

“I’m a right fool and a bloody brute at that,” he groaned as he pulled himself into a seated position. “But you’ve my word, so long as no one sets the world around us to flame, I’ll be as gentle as the Knight of Flowers.”

“Then wine you shall have, _ser.”_ He reached over and landed a soft pat on her behind as she swayed away from him, blushing from the tops of her breast to the tops of her cheeks. She slipped out of the room and into the darkened hall she needed no light to navigate. She felt her way down the corridors, passing familiar tapestries, avoiding irregular or misplaced stones. She made her way into the kitchen, pausing to light a candle atop the stone counter, casting a pale glow across the room. She made her way to the pantry, her skilled hands falling upon a lidded basket of bread. She withdrew a loaf and rummaged around the shelves for a crock of jam. Sansa opened the small jar and took a deep whiff of the compote, satisfied by the sweet aroma of winter cherry. She arranged her bounty on a large wooden tray, turning her attentions to the stores of wine and ale, freezing in place when she heard the rustle behind her.

A dozen possible threats flashed before her eyes, her breath catching in her throat, heart hammering against her breast. Why had she not begged Sandor’s company? She of all should know even one’s childhood home is not without danger. Feeling around the counter for something to use in her defense, her trembling hand settled for a heavy bottomed jug.

“Don’t panic, Sansa.” Her breath eased as she heard the familiar tone and turned to face Arya, her pale skin glowing in the dim light. “I’m just stocking my saddle bag, I’ll be heading out first light. I have…a small errand to run.”

Sansa cocked a brow at her little sister, taking in how confidently she wore the studded leather mail, her faithful Needle still tucked in her belt. “You’ve mentioned nothing of this errand, where is it you’ve been summoned now?”

“I’ll be gone a turn, maybe a bit more, but not too long.” Arya had a habit of answering anything but what Sansa had truly asked. “Besides, it seems you will not be lonely in my absence. Seems you’ve even managed to work up a bit of an appetite.”

Sansa sighed and replaced the jug on the pantry shelf. She tugged the robe a bit tighter around herself, lowering her gaze to the floor beneath her feet. Arya was right in that Sansa had felt more ravenous than she had in months, able to quiet her mind for long enough to let hunger, or really anything but fear, creep in. “It’s not what you think it is…we’ve not…”

“Not yet,” Arya finished, her own brow lifting at the suggestion.

“Arya…” Sansa tugged idly at her sleeves, unsure of how to proceed, how to name the conflicted feelings swirling around inside of her. “He brings me comfort,” she offered, her pleading eyes meeting the protective gaze of her sister. “Through all the years since father’s death, he’s been the only one who ever sought to comfort and protect me. I dismissed his sincerity because he looked every bit the monster I thought him to be, and instead put my trust in men like Petyr Baelish.” Arya’s eyes hardened at the mention of his name, a fist clenching by her side. “He offered to take me away from King’s Landing, away from those who took so much pleasure in my pain and sadness, but I still believed there was someone better, someone more like the knights in the songs that would come for me.”

“He’s certainly no knight…”

“Thank the gods for that!” Sansa shook her head, wringing her pale hands before her. “All I knew was pain from the Kingsguard. Sure, Ramsay made Meryn Trant look like a bloody Septon, but Meryn was the first to show me a cruel touch. Something I’ve unfortunately grown rather familiar with.” Arya cringed at the mention of Trant, knowing too well what depravity the man was capable of, especially in the service of little girls. She had never told her sister exactly what had transpired at the brothel in Braavos, but had clutched her tight during one of Sansa’s many nightmares, assuring her she had personally snuffed his flame. Sansa found her mouth had gone dry at the mention of his name and reached her hand to grasp a wine skin and brought the deep red to her lips.

“We might have been together, you and I, if he had taken you that night.” Arya had never considered that the man she resented for taking her away from the Brotherhood might have spared her sister a fraction of the pain that filled their years apart.

“I was in the Vale when you learned of Lysa’s death at the bloody gate,” Sansa uttered bitterly, raising the wine to her lips again. “We were so close. But I was a fool who trusted fools, instead of the one man who never lied to me or offered me false hope in an attempt to further his own cause.”

“You couldn’t have known that he would shirk loyalty to the crown in favor of a traitor’s daughter.” Arya reached out to take Sansa’s hand, to offer comfort or keep her from rubbing the skin bloody, she wasn’t sure. “I was a mere bounty for him to cash in, shuffling me around until he was certain he’d get his gold.”

“And where would he have gone after that?” Sansa pulled Arya toward her, gripping the hand in hers tightly. “He would have bent the knee to Robb, to anyone who would have him. To anyone who would treat him with a modicum of respect for a good deed done.” The light dimmed in her eyes as a sadder realization dawned on her, her grip faltering around her sister’s hand. “Or he’d have met the Stranger knowing he’d at least done something right in his life.”

Sansa hadn’t felt the tears begin, but there they were, racing down her cheeks, splattering onto the stones below. She hurriedly brushed them away, setting her breath to a calmer pace, lifting her hands to cup Arya’s face in the flickering glow. “Be well sister, and return to us wholly.”

“Aye, Sansa.” She stood tall and planted a soft kiss on her elder sister’s flushed cheek. “I’ll be back before you’ll even miss me.” She tossed her a wink over her shoulder, palming an apple, crunching loudly into it’s skin as she disappeared into the dark.

Sansa stood for a moment longer, trying to trace her sister’s diminishing form in the darkness, before returning her attentions to the wine, grasping another flask before gathering her tray and retracing her steps to her chamber. She opened the door, the tray wobbling a bit in her unsteady arms, greeted by a soft chuckle from the bed.

“Steady now, girl.” She kicked the door shut behind her, regaining her control over the goods in her arms. “I’d send you back if you spilled any of that wine.”

“Shall I arrange for the castellan to move your quarters to the wine cellar, then?” She smirked at him, setting the tray atop the heavy chest at the foot of her bed. “I think you might be happier there, amongst all your beloved friends.”

“I’m plenty happy where I’m at, little bird.” He watched her as she broke the rounded loaf into pieces, generously coating a piece in the deep crimson jam before holding it out to him. He leaned toward her, watching as she arranged another piece for herself on the tray, taking her proffered treat between his lips rather than his fingers, as she expected. She let out a small gasp, her piercing blue eyes opened wide as he disappeared the treat into his mouth, letting his tongue roll over her slender fingers. The sensation travelled in a strong current through her stomach and into a familiar ache between her legs. He couldn’t help but smirk at her as her pink pouty mouth fell open slightly and he reached beyond her lap for one of the wineskins, brushing against her legs as he did. He couldn’t tell in the low light of a dead fire, but he was sure a blush heated her milk white skin.

Settling into the mounded firs and pillows, he uncorked the skin and drew deeply, his eyes settling upon her as she fixed her own bread and jam. She reached to take the skin from him. “I ran into Arya in the kitchens.”

He let out a deep laugh at the little wolf’s appearance at their bedside earlier in the afternoon, wondering if Sansa hadn’t been on the receiving end of her sister’s admonishment. “And what did that little cunt want in the kitchens at this time of night?” Sansa knew his tone to be endearing to her sister and she let his comment roll past her, shaking her head at him, a smile still turning her mouth.

“She’s leaving to run an _errand_.” Sansa dipped a bit of bread into the jar of sweetened cherries and slipped it between her lips. Sandor frowned at that, feeling a certain unease at letting the girl go off alone. She had come this far unscathed, but he felt a renewed interest in keeping the Stark family whole.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

Sansa rolled her eyes and shook her head, staring off through the windows opposite the bed. “I never understood her, we’ve always been so different, but ever since she returned here and…Petyr…” In his mind, the faceless head at the gates of Winterfell came sharply to mind. “She gave me the strength to rid him from our home and for that I will always be in her debt.”

“Did Arya take his face?”

She drew in a sharp breath, squaring her shoulders before looking him dead in the eye. “ _Valar_ _morghulis_.” She tipped the wine skin toward him, as if a toast, drinking deep before passing the skin back to his awaiting hand.

" _Valor dohaeris._ " He offered a knowing smirk in response, knowing the little wolf had found her own way. Neither of them knew what Arya’s service to the Many Faced God truly entailed, but Sansa had seen this side of Arya only briefly in Winterfell and Sandor had met many Braavosi in his time. After a moment, he caught her gaze again and said, “if there’s anyone who can survive the world outside those gates, it’s Arya.” She smiled at that, returning her attentions to the tray before her, sating the hunger that had suddenly set upon her.

She reached out to him again, a bit of bread pinched between her fingers, but she was expecting his approach and pulled away just as his jaws snapped at her fingers. She giggled, raising her eyebrows at him, taunting him with a lip tucked between her teeth. He growled, playfully, tugging at her wrist and pulling her onto him, letting his teeth drag softly over her finger. “Don’t play with me, little bird. I’m a hungry old dog.” He kissed the sweetness away from her fingers, letting his free hand run the length of her long hair.


	8. My Girl, Linen and Curls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a bit more fluffiness before we see what Arya is up to.

Sandor hadn’t slept long before the morning light poured through the open shutters of Sansa’s bedchamber. He knew he had to rise to meet his responsibilities in the yard and abandon the warm nest he had shared with the little bird. Removing himself from her embrace proved a challenge, but he hadn’t seen her look quite this serene since they had been reunited. He slipped a bundled fur under her arm, a poor replacement for the man that had warmed her bed, but it seemed to keep her content as she burrowed her cheeks deep in its warmth. He dipped a hand to push the hair that had fallen over her face away, relishing her beauty that only seemed to grow the more he looked upon her.

As quietly as he could manage, he slipped on his heavy boots, buckled his sword belt around his waist and collected their trays from the day before. As he slipped into the hall, he spied her handmaiden Magda and beckoned her. The girl blushed at the sight of him leaving her lady’s chambers at an hour too early for a proper social call. He scowled at her, showing he had no patience for her judgement, thrusting the trays into her awaiting hands.

“See that the Lady Sansa has a bath brought up and a tray of food to break her fast. Sweetrolls, milk and fruit--the lady has quite the sweet tooth.” She brought her gaze to his, nodding her acquiescence.

“As you will, my lord.” He rolled his eyes at that, but let it go, feeling he had already intimidated the poor girl enough. He grasped her wrist, more gently than the Hound might have, forcing her to meet his grey stare.

“I’d be gravely disappointed if the entire house was buzzing with gossip this afternoon, about how Winterfell’s master at-arms was seen leaving the lady’s bedchamber. Do you understand me, girl?”

She held his eyes, giving a slight curtsey, a timid smile daring to spread across her lips. “I do, my lord. You have done our lady a great honor by seeing to her safety.” She bowed her head as he released her hand. He had turned to take his leave when he heard her voice call after him, shaking a bit. “You’re far kinder to the Lady Sansa than my former master ever was. We’re all grateful for that, my lord.”

He offered her a nod before taking the stairs to his room on the floor below. He took only a few moments to change his clothing, leaving his discarded garb in the wash basket by the door. He poured water from the pitcher over the ceramic basin on his wash table, inlaid with carved dire wolves and winter roses.  He thumbed the Stark sigil, thinking that a hound wasn’t really so different from a wolf after all. Splashing the cold water over his bare chest and face, he scrubbed the sleep away, readying himself for a day of sparring with the useless boys from the surrounding area that seemed to multiply everyday.

He pulled a clean tunic over his chest, followed by a simple leather jerkin. For the first time in a long time, he was compelled to pull himself in front of the only mirror in the room. He had draped a cloak over it, obscuring it from his idle gaze, and with a light tug the fur fell away leaving him face to face with the man he tried to avoid as often as possible. He hadn’t changed much since the last time he had confronted himself, but he noticed a slight scatter of grey hair in his otherwise black beard. He raised his fingers to his scarred cheek, feeling the puckered ridges and unnaturally smooth valleys that defined the left side of his face. His visage was once the fuel he needed to sustain his anger, seething every time he recalled the night Gregor held him against the coals of the brazier and the smell of his singed flesh seemed to permeate his surroundings as if he were still kicking and screaming beneath his brother’s mighty grasp.

He tried to imagine what Sansa felt, what she saw, as she sought refuge in his arms. She knew his story, one of his many drunken confessions unburdened at her feet, and he supposed she came to see him for his truth. He had tried desperately to scare some sense into her, using his deformed face as a warning for the cruelty his masters had shown him. Her spirit seemed indomitable and she had shown him kindness, even when he let his own cowardice over come him. He knew he was not able to hurt her the way he threatened the night the Blackwater burned, but some part of him was struggling to hold on to the fearsome Hound he had spent his life cultivating. But her gentle touch and her supplication to the Mother to gentle him was too much to bear. His greatest cowardice was not running from battle that night, but abandoning the girl that had shown him true kindness. He saw his fists clenching at his sides, feeling an old anger bubbling up within himself. But that would not help Sansa now. The damage had been done, the world in all of its cruelty had sought to take what he was unable to, and his anger would only serve to push her further away. He calmed his breath, pulled his long black hair into a knot at the nape of his neck, and met his own eye.

“For the little bird,” he said to himself, straightening up to his full height. If she could look at him and show him such warmth, he could keep it together and do his duty by her.

 

 

Sansa woke to the gentle rapping against her door, followed by a small train of handmaidens carrying water for a bath she didn’t remember ordering. Magda offered her a smile and a small bow before pushing wide the shutters covering the closed windows of her chambers. The day outside was bright, but grey, and Sansa had to squint against the aggressive glare. Her head thrummed dully and her arms felt bereft where they had felt full and warm when she fell asleep. The wine had gone quickly to her head and the last waking hours of her night were a blur of soft kisses, whispers, and giggles. She smiled as the haze lifted a bit and she sighed contentedly into the furs bunched beneath her face.

Magda took to her bedside, pulling Sansa gently by the hand, grinning sweetly as the other maids busied themselves readying her bath and stoking a new fire in the hearth. The comely girl, dressed modestly in a dour brown dress, leaned close to Sansa’s ear and whispered, “Lord Clegane sent for your bath and food to break your fast, I hope it pleases my lady.” Sansa smiled at the girl, squeezing her hand gently. Magda was the only handmaiden Sansa had kept after liberating her home from the Bolton’s. The girl had been subject to her former husband’s cruelty when he grew bored of his lady wife.

“It pleases me,” she whispered to the girl beside her. She reflected on Sandor’s manner and treatment of the maids at the Red Keep and feared he had been harsh and possibly cruel to the girl that likely saw him leaving her room in the early hours of the morning. “I hope he was not too harsh with you, Magda. He means well, but…” Sansa searched Magda’s eyes for a moment, eased when a smile spread across the girl’s mouth and lit her eyes.

“He means to protect you, my lady. That was clear when he approached me this morning.” She gave Sansa’s hand a reassuring pat and led her to the copper tub behind the same wooden screen she had sought refuge behind the day before. “Shall I stay and attend to you or would you like me to return in an hour with your morning meal?”

She knew Magda was weary of leaving her alone in the bath. Magda had been the one to pull Sansa out of the frigid tub she meant to drown herself in not long after she and Jon had rid Winterfell of Ramsay Bolton. Her lips had turned blue and she had been confined to her bed for several days as she sweat out the fever that came over her. Arya had often acted as her chaperone after that in her morning routine, sitting on her bed while Sansa bathed, keeping their chatter light and engaging. Today, Sansa felt lighter than she had in years, and she wanted to enjoy the steam she saw rising off the bath awaiting her.

“Return to me in an hour, I swear to be on my best behavior.” She clutched Magda closer to her and gave her a confident smile. The girl touched her forehead to Sansa’s gently, happy to see a change in her demeanor. “Bring me something sweet, whatever pastry Ainsley has in store for us today.”

“Aye, my lady.” Magda dipped her skirts and shooed the maids out of her room, leaving Sansa in peace. She heard the parrying of swords in the yard and a gruff voice carrying above the din. She looked out over the crowd of young men, most of them shifting uncomfortably as Sandor issued critique and command, issuing blows where theirs had failed. She smiled, seeing a confidence as teacher she wouldn’t have expected. He stepped back to let two boys spar, watching to see that they took heed of his corrective intervention. He leaned on his leaden tourney sword, his chest rising rapidly as he sought to catch his breath. She pressed her fingers to the glass, urging him to meet her gaze. To her surprise, he lifted his head from the fight before him and settled upon her windows. He smiled then, seeing that she had been watching him, and nodded his head to her. She pressed her lips to the glass, watching him flush slightly before turning his gaze back to his men. She noticed he was still smirking as she slid out of her robe and crossed the room to the steaming tub.

When Magda returned, Sansa had wrapped herself back into her robe, having changed into fresh small clothes and set her attention to unsnarling her long hair. Magda set the tray of sweet breads and hard cheeses in front of her, taking over the task of brushing her hair. Sansa felt as ravenous as she had in the middle of the night and set her sights on a shell shaped pastry with an opaque and sugary glow. It did not disappoint as she sank her teeth into it, revealing a spiced filling of nuts and dried fruit. She closed her eyes, savoring the taste and the comforting pull of Magda’s hands through her hair, drifting back to a time when she was just a girl and her mother attended to her bathing routine.

“I’ve not seen you look this way, lady Sansa.” Magda placed her hands upon her shoulders and turned her gaze to their reflection in the large looking glass. “Do you wish to get dressed today?”

Sansa knew what she meant. Since Ramsay, she opted for simple dresses she could manage on and off by herself. She skipped corsets and bindings, opting for simple undergarments and even simpler garb. She had several elaborately embroidered dresses in her wardrobe, apparitions of her former grace and station. She bit pensively into a ripe fig, considering something as simple as her dress with the same measured contemplation Jon gave battle strategy. The war pitted her against herself, one half a meek, shell of a courtesan and the other the heir to an ancient home and legacy.

“The dark green gown with the silver stitching.” Magda’s eyes brightened, knowing that Sansa had selected her most flattering dress. It took a bit of pinning and quick stitching to take the dress in to accommodate Sansa’s waning form. She stood before the mirror, suddenly aware of her diminished waist and hollowed cheeks. Her deep blue eyes were darkened around the rims and seemed to recede into her face. She frowned at the woman that looked back at her, unsettled by the ghost that stared back. Magda’s own expression fell, the excitement between them now dampened. She began braiding Sansa’s hair in a simple, thick coil.

“You’re a beautiful woman, lady Sansa. When I set upon you this morning, you were radiant.” Magda situated the braid over Sansa’s right shoulder, wrapping her arms around her waist in a sudden and unexpected display of affection. “There’s a man here that sees the sun rise and fall on your face. Let him give you some happy memories and help you let go of the pain you carry.” Sansa covered the girl’s arms with her own, hugging her tight.

“Who will help you carry the weight?” Magda cast her eyes down to the dressing table before finding Sansa’s face again.

“Maybe someday a man will look at me the way Lord Clegane looks at you and everything will melt away.” Her smile was small and sad and not entirely hopeful. “But until then, let me live in your glow, knowing that we _can_ bury our past.”

Sansa’s eyes swam behind tears that would not fall. They had learned to steel themselves to one another, for the sake of one another. She nodded, agreeing that she would try, letting the girl attend to the laces of her dress again.


	9. Into That Secret Place Where No One Dares to Go

Sandor left the practice yard feeling accomplished, sweat pouring from under his light mail despite the bitter cold the northern winter had to offer. He gave the boys encouraging words as they shook hands and broke to tend their wounds and aching muscles. They had come to respect him over the weeks he had spent taking each of them to task, even if it was only with a wooden sword in his hand. He had bested every one of them, but saw strength growing daily as the wheat separated from the chaff. Those he saw no promise in, he worked with Maester Samwell or Basel, Winterfell’s castellan, to find suitable employ. Those he reassigned seemed relieved and grateful to be out of mail and in the kitchens or the kennels and out of the yard.

Seeing Sansa looking down at him from the master suite of the castle made him swell with pride. The kiss she pressed against the glass made his heart flutter and a wave of arousal sweep over him. He tamped that familiar flame down with a heated spar between him and the most promising member of the future guard, the match leaving the men breathless and panting on their swords.

Nothing sounded better than sinking into a hot bath and seeking out his little bird’s company, his mind wandering to the day before when he hardly left her side or her bed.

He was disappointed to find an empty hallway as he returned to his chambers, hoping to send for a bath. He pushed his door open, half out of his sword belt before he closed the door behind him, setting his hands to work on the unfastening of his jerkin. He let out a low curse, struggling with a buckle that refused to budge. He heard her stifle a laugh as she watched him from the window seat. “I thought I might return your kindness, my lord.” She rested her hands on the rim of the copper tub, skimming her long fingers against the steaming surface.

She was dressed in a deep green gown, silver leaves twining around her bust and sleeves, hugging her slight frame at every curve. He had grown used to her dressing in simpler garb, usually a wrap dress of rough grey wool, but today she looked every bit the polished lady.

He gave the buckle a final and decisive tug, pulling the stitches as he discarded the garment on the floor behind him. His tunic clung to the muscles of his shoulders and chest, drawing her eye. He relished the look of desire that washed over her face. Never before had he felt so wanted by a woman, let alone a woman as beautiful and noble as Sansa Stark. And here she was, dipping her slender fingers into his bathwater, consuming his body with her hungry eyes.

He paused before the tub, waiting for her to take the lead. He wanted to drag her into the steaming water with him and claim every inch of her with his mouth, but he knew she would need to set the pace. He would gladly take whatever she was willing to give him.

“The water will only get colder, my lord.” She was poking fun at him, he could tell by the glint in her eyes and the way her lips curled as she chirped the pleasantries he had chastised her for in the past. He saw the challenge she leveraged with her eyes, pulling the tunic over his head. He unlaced his breeches and pushed them to the floor, dragging his small clothes with them, baring himself to her for a brief moment before lowering himself into the tub. He could see in her flushed face that she had not thought her bold move through and now found herself trapped beside him, naked as his nameday, barely obscured by the bathwater.

He loosened her white knuckle grip from the edge of the tub, coaxing her touch toward his bare chest, a tortured landscape of his fearsome past. She turned away for a moment, pulling a stool from his dressing table to his side. He helped her roll the long, wide sleeves of her gown back, before replacing her touch upon his chest. “All these funny shaped ones, these are arrows. I’ve caught myself a dozen or more feathers, lucky none slicked with poison or too close to my heart.” She mapped four of the shapes he described, grateful to the Warrior that his foes had not been better marksman. She tapped a long gash that marred his left shoulder in a wide arc. “Not sure the specifics, but a bastard likely got between my plate armor. I remember bleeding like a stuck pig, but in the end, it was just a scratch.” She ran her fingers over his ribs, skimming the water line as she traces faint silver lines. “Daggers, all of them. Just lucky none of them found the sweet spot.” He tugged her hand gently to where his stomach yielded to her touch, just below his rib cage. “Get a man under the ribs like that and he’ll not be giving you any more trouble.”

Sansa took in his massive form, practically spilling over the tub, a god made flesh, replete with the evidence of his many brushes with Stranger. “I’m a lucky woman to have such a powerful man guarding my home and my family.” She cupped the warm water in her hands and moved it over his shoulders and neck, tracing the droplets over his skin, before dipping her hand again. He titled his head against the side of the tub, relishing the feeling of the water and her delicate hands moving over his aching muscles. He had done well to keep himself covered from her sight, but he felt his arousal growing the more her touch lingered over his skin, the lower her hand dared to go below the water’s surface.

“And what of me, little bird? To what do I owe the good fortune that finds me here, welcomed in your home and warmed by your touch?”

“Despite what you like others to think of you, you’re not a bad man.” She moved herself so that she was squarely behind his shoulders, running her damp fingers over his cheeks, her breasts cradling his head against her. “You’ve been dealt more pain and hardship than most, and yet, you are generous with your kindness and protection to those who deserve it.” She palmed the good side of his face, whispering over his ruined ear, her soft lips brushing his scarred flesh. “You are the only man who has ever been true to me, who never sought my attentions to benefit himself, whose hands have brought me pleasure instead of pain.” He lifted his hand from the water to hold her head to his, dragging his fingers through her hair. He felt her mouth on his skin again, a faint whisper of what his other half could feel, but her tenderness had disarmed him again. “A man whose hands would seek vengeance against those who seek to harm me.”

“I’d raise the dead to kill them all again, Sansa…” He felt tears stinging his eyes and he beat them back with every blink. “I only wish I had kept you safe then, found you sooner…” Her lips and fingers were all over his face at that, their lips finding each other as he abandoned his modestly to wrap his arms around her neck, soaking her gown. “If you’d let me, I’d spend the rest of my days making it up to you.”

“If you think I’ll ever let you leave without me again, you’re mad.” Their lips met gently, tongues grazing softly, their hands wrapped around each other tightly. Sansa broke away slowly, her eyes fixed to him, bathing him in any adoration her words had failed to impart. “I seem to have lost my manners. I’ve kept you from your bath, my lord.” Sansa cast her deep blue eyes toward the water, her long fingers idly skimming the surface, as she mustered up her courage to meet his gaze again. Sansa let her eyes roam over his muscled, well built flesh, swallowing the bundle of nerves that bound her throat. “I mean to give myself to you. Would you do me the honor of joining me in my chambers this evening?”

“Aye, little bird,” Sandor barely managed to utter before Sansa rose from his side and disappeared into the hall, the fire that haunted the best of his dreams smoldering in his chest.  


	10. And the Man With the Golden Gun, Thinks He Knows So Much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because you all have been so kind, and it's Thanksgiving, I give you two chapters! <3

Jon’s missive had been cryptic, but not impossible to decipher. And so Arya sat at a long, worn common table in the dark shadows of the dank inn in Wintertown, awaiting Jon’s messengers. Her grey eyes had scrubbed every inch of the tavern, appraising every drunken soul, every wanton woman. There were no threats to her here, her plain Northern features merely static amongst the idle drunken chatter. Relaxing her narrow shoulders, Arya tipped the horn back and drained the ale. Immediately, a wench was upon her ready to quench her thirst, whatever form that may take. The wink the buxom brunette gave her suggested the girl would readily meet any Arya might have. Arya was not attracted to the girl, but she found the power this attention gave her satisfying in its own way.  Arya smiled her thanks, noncommittally, her attention quickly diverted the wide oaken doors swinging open.

Amidst a swirl of frigid air and sleet, Jaime Lannister and Brienne of Tarth entered the inn of low light and dull chatter. Arya rose, more out of habit than reverence, welcoming her old friend and a man whose allegiance she had yet to sort out. Arya wasn’t quite sure what she expected, but Jaime Lannister was as far away from a friendly informant as she could imagine. But Brienne’s presence was affirming, as Arya knew the woman was a terrible liar. The lady knight clapped Arya firmly on the shoulder, pulling the girl into a fierce bear hug.

“Lady Arya, you’re looking quite well!” Brienne beamed as she took the young warrior girl in. Brienne let her thumb trace over Arya’s gaunt cheek briefly, almost imperceptibly, before letting her strong hand brace the young warrior’s shoulders.  “And Sansa,” Brienne’s eyes softened at the mention of her sister, her angular face set with concern. “Tell me how your sister fares?” Brienne had seen Sansa at her worst, the mere shell of a princess, broken by the bastard Ramsay Snow.

Arya dropped her gaze to the table, fighting every urge to gossip about Sansa’s infatuation with the Hound, settling for a more reserved account, given the lion whose place amongst the wolves was still uncertain. “Well,” Arya offered finally, definitively. “Sansa’s doing quite well.” Arya flashed Brienne a smile before pivoting her attention to Jaime, nodding her acknowledgment of the tall man fixed a few paces behind Brienne. “Kingslayer.”

“Lady Arya.” Jaime smirked at her, his eyes scanning her slight and boyish frame, resting on the slender handle of her Needle. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Lyanna Stark was alive and well before me.”

“Better to be a Stark these days than a Golden Lion.” In a rather satisfying turn of events, it seemed that her family had survived rather well, all things considered. She was an orphan, true, but it would seem all her siblings but Robb survived the war and the brother she thought a bastard was truly a lost Targaryen prince. And her cousin to boot. _Better to have dragons than all of Westeros_ , she thought, pinning the Kingslayer under her icy glare. Arya broke from Jaime’s dark emerald eyes and sought the attention of the wench who had attended her before and nodded for her to bring refreshments to her companions. “So, come, drink and tell me what my brother,” Arya caught herself. “What cousin Jon has planned for me now?”

Brienne nodded to Jaime and the pair saddled up to the bench opposite Arya, offering thanks to the servant girl, waiting until the girl drifted out of earshot before Brienne finally began.

“Jon and the queen are quite disappointed in Cersei’s betrayal of our agreement in King’s Landing. The support she offered will be sorely missed in our efforts beyond the wall. After dead took Viserion, we suffered terribly, as you know. The wall has been secured again and Viserion….dealt with, but the losses to our army beyond the wall are staggering.” Brienne glanced toward Jaime, her blue eyes probing him to speak. When he gave her a pleading look, Brienne merely turned back to Arya with a roll of her eyes and sigh. “Jaime has joined us from the capital, equally disheartened by his sister’s duplicity. He tells us she has allied herself quite closely with Euron Greyjoy and seeks to hire a mercenary army to supplement her forces and secure the realm while the rest of us fight the Army of the Dead.”

“So, while we’re all off killing ourselves to preserve humanity, Cersei will be well rested and armed, having fought off a handful of minor houses and outlaws to secure her claim to the Iron Throne?” Arya drained the horn yet again, signaling her girl to fill again. “Have I the right of it?”

Brienne remained silent, tilting her head toward Jaime. He was reluctant to speak, knowing _Turncloak_ would soon be added to his roster of unflattering monikers. Soon, he would have as many titles as the Queen of Dragons herself. _Jaime Lannister_ , he mused, _breaker of oaths, slayer of kings, betrayer of kin, father of monsters_. He let a smirk play on his lips, snapped out of his thoughts by Brienne’s sharp, mailed elbow digging into his ribs.

“Tell her,” Brienne hissed. “Tell her what we intend for her to do.”

Jaime sighed, nodding to Brienne before turning to Arya, and began in little more than a hushed whisper.

The Kingslayer revealed all of Cersei’s weaknesses. Her reliance on her Queen’s hand, Qyburn. Her reanimated and monstrous bodyguard, _Robert Strong_. Jaime revealed Cersei’s plans to use the gold obtained from the now extinct house of Highgarden to enlist support from the Golden Company. He revealed the depth of his traitorous heart, offering every chink in his sister’s armour, every advantageous entry into the keep, every secret path the spiders and sparrows of the kingdom had carved out over the years. He offered Aryan everything he could to help bring his own house down. What was left of the fractured lion’s den, anyhow.

Arya sat back and absorbed it all, nodding as the unspoken directive that now rattled around in her mind. She knew of the hidden passageways beneath the red keep and had become more than adept at going around unseen. This mission seemed inevitable, a kill she had been grooming herself for since her father’s headless corpse danced across the Sept of Baelor. Arya felt a pang of dread as she contemplated the task at hand. She knew she should be licking her lips, like a starving girl invited to dine on the lavish feast of vengeance. How many nights had she recited her list, Cersei amongst the names of the damned, dreaming of retribution. But as Arya allowed herself to consider her success in taking down the mad Lannister Queen, she found herself suddenly afraid of the uncertainty of what came after Cersei. With so few names left on her list, she felt a twinge of bittersweet remorse, wondering what would be left of her when all the names were gone. Arya was no lady, of that she was certain. Where would a faceless girl go?  

Jaime narrowed his eyes at Arya as he listed everything he thought to be of use to the assassin before him, little more than a waif of a _girl_ with a miniature sword, wondering how in the seven hells his world had been turned so thoroughly upside down.

“You forget, _ser_ Jaime, I was able to stay out of your sister’s grasp for quite some time now.” Arya cast away her doubts, the thrill of taking out her enemy far outweighing her metaphysical uncertainty. A girl need not worry about such things. Ary fingered the small splatter of ale that marred the table before her, tracing abstractions along the wood that had likely seen it’s fair share of treason and scheming before them. “But why offer her up so readily? Have you found yourself in a bit of a lover’s quarrel with your _beloved_ sister?” She let that bit of poison fly with a self-satisfied smirk playing at her lips. Jaime’s cold, green stare met hers with what Arya recognized immediately as stark honesty. She let the smile fade, regarding him with comfortable austerity. “Why should I trust you not to play us against one another?”

“I wish to remain in the army of the living, my lady. I once regarded my loyalty to my family and my house as paramount to all other obligations. Even as a member of the Targaryen Kingsguard, I still served my house above all else.” Jaime leaned toward the young girl now, his golden finger thrumming against the table as he sought to emphasize a point or underscore the importance of what he was saying. “And at what cost? Most of my noble home is gone now, preserved on the backs of houses now extinct, and the Lannisters owe the greatest debt to your great house, Arya Stark.” His golden hand thudded just before her own slender hand, wrapped around the cool, marbled horn. Arya’s gaze snapped up to meet Jaime’s. His comely, tanned face bore no expression, but Arya felt the emerald stare deep into her heart. “And you know what they say about a Lannister and their debts.” He picked up his untouched ale and unburdened the horn in one deft swallow, his eyes never leaving Arya’s.

“I will go to the capital and I will return with the Lannister army.” Arya’s tone was flat as she offered her response some silent moments later. Brienne expelled a labored sigh, her shoulders rolling out of the forward slump she had assumed while Jamie and Arya came to terms. The lady knight straightened into her proud height and she nodded,  relieved as the fog of tension lifted. “It will take a moon or two, I’d wager, but I’ll be armed to the teeth on the way back and like to meet little resistance. I imagine it will take me a sennight or so to secure…the queen, but I will make haste in bringing the forces north.”

“Will you not take anyone as an escort, my lady?” Brienne’s brow was furrowed with concern, but if anyone truly respected all that the youngest wolf had accomplished, it was the Maid of Tarth. “Perhaps the Hound would accompany you down the Kingsroad? He would be only too happy to offer his services against his brother, whatever form the Mountain takes now.”

Arya snorted, her hand flying up to her mouth to catch the unladylike dribble of ale that escaped her lips. She chuckled, finally able to swallow and set her free hand to wiping the mess she left on the table before her. “I meant no offense, Lady Arya, I merely meant to suggest that Clegane is a fearsome warrior who seems equally eager to rectify his wrongdoings against your house, as well as his own. Perhaps,” and here the lady knight revealed her reluctance to offer her squire, but she did anyway. “Perhaps Pod could accompany you, my lady. He is quite knowledgeable in matters of the capital, after all.”

Arya shook her head and gave a softer, understanding laugh. “If I thought that Sandor Clegane could come up for air from my sister long enough to swing a sword, I still wouldn’t take him because his ugly face is perhaps the most recognizable in all the seven kingdoms.” Jaime shot Brienne a questioning sidelong look which she ignored, merely nodding to Arya. “I’ll go alone and take cover the best way a girl such as I know how. And I’ll be all the quicker for it.”

“The quicker the better,” Brienne agreed. “Best if you get her out of there before Euron returns, with or without the Golden Company.”

Arya nodded. Jaime looked between the two women, unsure of how they moved so quickly past that bit about Sansa Stark and…

“The Hound?” He finished the thought out loud. Arya and Brienne chuckled into their ale, only offering sly smiles and nods. “Sandor Clegane and….and Sansa-queen-in-the-bloody-north-stark?”

“She was quite beside herself when I brought news of his death from the Quiet Isle.” Brienne wasn’t much for drink and found herself grinning into her cup, flushing after she drained her second offering.

“We cannot be speaking of the _same_ Sandor Clegane. What you suggest is impossible.” Jaime shook his head dismissively. “There is no way your _sister_ is in love with the Hound.”

Arya leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. “The heart wants what it wants, Kingslayer.” Arya smirked, eyes blown wide with feigned innocence. Brienne snickered into the back of her hand, watching Jaime flush a deep Lannister crimson. “Surely _you_ know a bit about that.”


	11. I Will be Home Then

 

Sansa sat before the fire, sipping on a glass of strong red wine, struggling to keep herself from fidgeting. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders, clad in a light grey robe. She had spent the better part of the evening staring into the dying flames licking at the hearth, contemplating the evening before her. She knew that all men were not Ramsay Snow, and the lustful moments she shared with Sandor had ignited a desire in her no man ever had. Sansa was ready for him to replace the nights of terror that still plagued her fitful sleep with something better to feed her dreams. Despite her uncertainty that she would ever find pleasure in the act, Sansa felt a mounting need to be touched and desired. And _loved_.

Lost deep in the mire of her thoughts, Sansa never registered the quiet footfalls trailing through the open door of her solar. Sandor roused her attention when he barred the door behind him, the rasping slide of rolled steel against the catch seizing her attention. Her heart set to a thunderous pace as he turned his gentle gaze to her. Leaning against the door, he drank in her glowing form. Sansa found herself at a loss for words, her hands gripping the pewter cup of wine in her lap as if it tethered her to reality. She didn’t know what to do, every experience in her past dictated that her body was for the taking, not sharing, and she found herself unable to relinquish control. Her whole being felt leaden, but Sansa managed to her eyes from her skirts to beckon him closer.

Sandor had dressed himself down already, clad in simple olive green breeches and a soft grey tunic Sansa recognized as one she had fashioned for him in the weeks they’d shared. Her nimble and delicate fingers had embellished the neck and sleeves with little red birds and tiny black hounds, the only kind of love letter she knew how to write. Sansa tilted her head back against the high leather back, her teeth worrying the smile that spread across her soft pink lips. Sandor pushed off the heavy door and crossed to her chair before the fire slowly, placing himself behind her. He let his hands drift over the tufted cushion, slowly wandering through her silken hair and down her pale and lovely neck. Sansa let out a sigh, letting her eyes close as his fingers gathered her hair at the nape of her neck in his firm, but gentle grasp. A soft moan escaped her lips as he pressed his own to the space between her ear and her jaw, uncharted skin that seemed wired to her core and she found herself arching her body into his touch, silently urging his work worn palms down. Sandor smiled at her eagerness, but he was not ready to indulge her just yet.

“What does my little bird desire, hmm?” Sandor let his lips drift across her ear, his warm humming voice stirring the tresses that framed her face. He could feel the heat of her blush radiating from her delicate skin, his hands tracing the simple lace that edged the neckline of her sleeping gown. In the soft glow of the fire, he could see her breasts through the sheer fabric, her arousal evident in her small peaked nipples he so wished to taste. But he had become a patient man, and he had wanted her for so very long now that he felt no need to rush. “Tell me, Sansa.” The timbre of his voice was its own pleasure to her. “Tell me what you want me to do to you.”

Sansa felt light headed, his touch seemingly everywhere and nowhere at once. She wanted to know how to answer him, but truthfully, she wasn’t sure. All she had ever known was pain and as a lady she was taught by her septa that her womanhood was only for her husband. Sansa Stark had never known pleasure before Sandor found himself at Winterfell and she was engulfed by desire, tugged below the cresting wave of reason by his touch.

“I want,” she began, but her tongue felt heavy and thick in her mouth as he lay warm kisses down her neck and into the valley of her collarbones. She formed tangible desires and truths from their nights of stolen kisses and restrained exploration. “I want your mouth and your touch all over me. I want to feel the weight of you against me.” Sandor grunted his assent, drawing a bit of the delicate skin stretched over her jaw between his teeth. “And I _need_ you to be gentle.”

Sandor had been with women, whores mostly, but he felt as uncertain in his desire as she was. Stone sober and a man all his own, the one thing he was certain of was his desire to protect his broken bird above all else. He couldn’t offer her much, a man positioned far below the Queen in the North, but he knew himself to be a truer man than the girl had ever known. He let his fingertips span her chin and gently lifted her head back to look up at him. Sandor’s deep grey eyes were clear and placid, a smile crinkling the delicate skin that framed his gaze. He offered her no promises to be kind, to go slow; she already knew he would. He leaned down over her, placing a soft kiss upon her lips, his hands squeezing her shoulders reassuringly. His vernacular was action, so he let his touch and his patience speak peace into her heart. Sansa sighed, as light as a feather, gave herself over to his affections.

Sandor leaned over the arm of the chair, dragging one hand over her side, tracing the gentle slope of her hip as he hoisted her out of the chair. A soft “oh” traveled on her breath as she leaned into his strong embrace. A wide, playful grin replaced her fleeting look of surprise. He dropped Sansa on the fur topped feather bed with an intentional bounce, eliciting a girlish giggle from the flushed princess and a groan of desire from the scarred man.

Sandor knelt beside the bed, pulling Sansa’s milk white calves to drape over the edge, framing his imposing form. He locked his eyes on hers, dragging his hands over the smooth skin of her freckled legs, inching the hem of her shift up a bit more on every pass. He wet his lips, his voice hushed and rough as he offered himself to her.

“I am a harsh man, little bird. A killer, a weapon, a bloody good warrior.” Gentle hands smoothed her hair back, tracing the auburn fall down her shoulders, warm fingers pushing at her robe. Sansa found herself pinned by his gaze and touch, an anathema to his rough voice and calloused skin. Every move he made commanded her attention while his hands began divesting her of her modest clothing. His black hair was pulled back from his face, Sansa noticed _. He’s not hiding_ , she thought, a warm smile playing on her face. “I am no lord, no knight. I have nothing to offer a lady like you, except my sword and though it makes me feel like a weak, buggering fool, my heart.” Her breath came faster, his hands deftly undoing the ties of her gauzy shift. “But I promise you, Sansa, as a man of no vows, that I want nothing you would not freely give me. I take no pleasure in your pain.” A smile broke his solemn confession and he pressed a hot, open mouthed kiss between her breasts, his deep voice rumbling through her. “I only wish to make you sing sweet songs, little bird.”

Sansa pulled his mouth to hers, clawing at his tunic, fumbling to unlace his breeches. She was desperate for his closeness, eager to vanquish every dark night spent with Ramsay. Sandor matched the intensity of her inexpert kisses with an ardor all his own, feeling the physical realization of his desires and idle fantasies coalescing as his tongue deepened her willing kiss. He pulled away, her mouth following reflexively, taking a moment to thumb the gentle curve of her jaw. Sansa gifted him with a broad smile, her eyes bright and clear.

“You won’t break me, Sandor.” Her tone was almost teasing as she pulled the leather tie that held his hair in place. Sansa had come to love the feeling of his dark hair spilling through her fingers, her nails digging into the soft flesh of his scalp. With a deft flick of his wrists, Sandor pushed the loosened shift over her narrow shoulders. The brush of his knuckles over the bare skin of her breasts earned him a deep moan from her slender throat, and it was he who worried his lip between his teeth for a change. “It seems terribly unfair, this inequality of our dress.”

Sansa shifted back toward the middle of the bed, the drag of her body pulling the shift about her thighs. Sandor let out a lustful hiss and rocked himself standing. He wasted no time pulling the tunic over his head and kicking his boots off, but his hand seemed leaden as he hooked his thumbs in the waist of his small clothes. Sandor cocked his head to the side, letting his eyes roam over expanse of perfect skin laid out before him. He had been years without a woman and a lifetime without love. Over the years, the odd, unrequited infatuation had struck him, but nothing could compare to the love of the little bird. And now he had her, trembling with anticipation under his gaze and it seemed a sin to rush.

Every instinct screamed for his body to act quickly, but he took a deep breath to cool himself. He lifted a pearlescent leg, pinching her small heel in his grip, smiling at the way her head lolled to the side and she brought a delicate knuckle between her smiling teeth. Sansa kicked her free leg slightly, pushing her abandoned shift to the floor. Sandor had never considered a woman’s feet before, marveling at the softness of the skin he found there, his own often near as rough as his palms from hours working on his feet in the yard. He kissed the delicate arch of her instep, sliding his hand over her calf. Her eyes fluttered at his touch and he smiled, hugging the slender leg to his chest, leaning his mouth to kiss down to her bony kneecap. When she moaned, her hips lifting from the bed, he turned his attention to her other leg, repeating his attentions until she was breathing heavily, her breasts flushed and heaving. He knelt between her, dropping her feet to the bed again, dragging his thumbs down the inside of her thighs. Sansa bit back the unladylike noises that bubbled up in her throat, her hands fisting the furs beneath her. Sandor imagined those hands around his cock as he dipped one adventurous thumb into the warmth that beckoned from within her.

Those blue eyes that haunted him when he dared close his own blew wide before snapping closed as she whimpered against the back of her hand. Sandor chuckled softly, finding the spot he knew would make her sing, dragging rough circles over her again and again until she began to come apart under his touch. He felt her body tense as she neared her release and he leaned forward, pressing his head to hers as she lifted up to meet him. “Let go, little bird.” He placed his lips against hers almost chastely, the contrast of his actions underscored by the hand now moving inside of her. She opened her mouth to gasp, the heat of her breath against his own heady and intoxicating. “Let go, little bird,” he said again, coaxing her pleasure with surprisingly nimble fingers for such a calloused man. “I’ll be here to catch you when you fall.”


	12. The Air in the Mountains Where I Come From

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that has been reading this! I'm still pretty new to the Archive and this whole fanfic thing, but you really know how to make a girl feel welcome! <3

Sansa had known what it was to be wanted, possessed even, but pleasure had only ever evaded her. She was leveled by the waves that rolled through every muscle in her taut frame as his hands, his voice, and his lips beckoned her crash against his shore. When her eyes opened again, Sandor was before her, naked as his nameday, a boyish grin lighting up his face. She giggled, sizzling under the heat of his lustful gaze and the smug satisfaction heating his cheeks. “Are you ready for me, little bird?” Having seen him in his entirety, she wasn’t quite sure, but her head nodded in earnest, her own upturned lips matching his grin.

He threaded a massive hand through her hair, gripping her tightly to his lips as they fell on hers. Sandor issued an assault of greedy, lustful kisses against her parted mouth, the fire of his want a near distraction from the moment he entered her. Sansa’s head pulled back, feeling the intensity of him moving inside her, a far cry from the pain she had been conditioned to expect. True to her plea, he was gentle with her, cradling her in the warmth of his embrace, his mouth leaving hers only to taste the fine sweat that beaded in the hollow of her throat, the valley of her breasts. Sansa found herself holding tightly to his neck, her body instinctively rolling with the undulation of his own. Sandor moaned her name into her skin as her hands clenched against his neck, feeling another swell of pleasure rise from her toes.

Sansa relished the feeling of being and nothingness that defined her current existence beneath him. How his hands and mouth seemed to be everywhere at once was lost on her and she felt she could do little more than let her head roll back as moan after unbidden moan passed her parted lips. Sandor was bracing her hips firmly as his pace quickened, bringing her to a higher plane of wanton satisfaction. His thick fingers gripped her thighs, digging into her pale flesh, surely leaving a trail of love marks in their wake. Sansa wrapped her legs tightly around him, earning a deep groan from the formidable man inside her and he repaid her by pressing his thumb into the spot that had already made her sing.

“Oh, Sandor…”

When the familiar heat uncoiled from the pit of her lower belly, Sansa found herself stiffening with trepidation, but the piercing grey eyes that forced her gaze reminded her to let go. And she did. Like a clenched fist unfurling, Sansa let him push her over the edge, her every muscle expanding with the languid repose of completion. She felt him shudder above her, his face tightly contorted for a brief moment before slackening into a look of awe. A deep laugh rose from his belly as he smoothed back the locks of hair sticking to her dampened forehead, a contagious noise that echoed into her own voice. He collapsed atop her, careful not to crush the little bird beneath him, and they allowed the unfamiliar feeling of wholeness consume them.

 

Some hours later, Sansa awoke to gentle kisses on the nape of her neck and warm hands palming and caressing her bare flesh. She found Sandor to be insatiable, a man whose hunger for her was as deep and boundless as a foreign sea. He melted her with every touch, made her pliable beneath his attentions, and for all she could tell, the world outside her door had disappeared into a silent void. The second time she awoke was to the sharp sound of ice pelting the lead framed windows of her chamber. She chased the sleep from her eyes with a narrow fist, fishing amongst the abandoned garments on her floor for the robe she had cast aside hours ago.

Sansa found that she needed to swipe away a fine fog that had spread across the glass, a cold contrast to the warmth that emanated from her skin. Wiping the moisture against her leg through the robe, she noted the vignetting of ice framing the window and the yard below cast in an ethereal glowing white. Winter was here for true and her heart felt heavy as she remembered her father, her family, and all the losses of her summer life.

She found her mind travelling backward in time, recalling an evening long ago, in a castle in the clouds. Sansa never allowed herself to think on her time with Petyr in the Eyrie, but the melodic tinkling of ice forced the memories to bubble up inside her. Feeling utterly alone and violated by Petyr’s unwanted attention, she found herself wrapped in the singed tatters of a Kingsguard cloak listening to the sounds of an early winter storm as it pelted her prison. The ice had come without warning, before anyone had even thought to move to the Gates of the Moon, and she read fear in the scurrying and hushed whispers of the maids and stewards as they fretted about the keep.

Petyr had been anxious, Sansa could taste it in the tenseness of his lips, though the proud man tried to act cool and collected. He left her earlier than he usually did most evenings, clearly distracted, and Sansa found herself dreaming of being stuck in the clouds indefinitely. She knew Petyr feared for their safety and their stores if this storm were to change into something more…permanent, but Sansa welcomed the suggestion of catastrophe. She daydreamed about flying through the moon door when all around her would begin to starve and the desperation would drive them mad. Sansa would escape then, even if it meant smashing herself on the jagged rocks below.

The cloak was an indulgence Sansa often savored, dipping into her trunk past all the small clothes and shifts, summer silks and dresses a bastard like Alayne had no cause to wear. Her hands always knew by feel, able to remove the cloak with little disruption to all else, and she felt her stomach flip as she reflected on the man to whom it once belonged. She would imagine his arms wrapping around her, holding her tightly to his well-muscled form, ready to run his sword through anyone who dared harm or intimidate her. Somewhere between her fortress in the clouds and her return to Winterfell, the cloak had gone missing, likely discovered by Petyr or her _husband_ and discarded. There had been many nights she closed her eyes and wished for the cloak, a poor substitute for the man himself, but a comfort none the less. But now she had the man, the embrace, and all the warmth she only imagined the cloak could contain.

“Sansa?” His deep grumble pierced her thoughts, a smile on her kiss burned lips. She turned to see Sandor raise his head, his eyes half-closed and clouded with groggy confusion. He cocked his head, listening, looking every bit like his former moniker and Sansa bit back a laugh. After puzzling over the noise for a moment he asked, incredulous, “is that ice?”

“Aye,” she replied, imitating his rasp. “Colder than Cersei’s cunt out there.”

Sandor laughed heartily, his massive chest spreading as a stretch pulled his arms above his head, yielding a _pop_ from somewhere deep in his back and a groan of contention. He patted the furs beside him, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth and she couldn’t help but return the giggle, wondering if the scarred man had ever known such joy. “Get back in this bed, woman.” The growl of his deep voice gave her a shudder as the memory of their shared pleasure replayed in her mind. “I’ll carry you kicking and screaming if I must.”

Sansa wondered if that would be such a terrible thing and considered playing coy and letting him hoist her up over his shoulder like a wildling bride. She opted for the upper hand, as she so rarely had it in her life. Pushing away from the window slowly, her hands pulled at the simple knot at the waist of her robe, letting the flimsy thing fall open. He sat up slightly, resting his head against the weirwood frame of her bed, drinking in the sight of her as she shrugged the robe off and back to the floor where they both knew it belonged. She approached the bed slowly, letting her fingers drag over his leg through the furs, greeting the bare flesh of his stomach with her nails as she leaned over to kiss him. Fluidly, he swung her up by her waist, settling her where the furs once draped his lap. When he broke the kiss, it was to pepper her breasts with tiny nibbles and licks, and they both knew he would not be leaving her at dawn to train the men and she would bar the door and send her maids away. There was nothing to do in an ice storm but wait and keep warm.  


	13. I Was Her Love, She Was My Queen

The frigid morning came and with it a dull ache in Sandor’s leg. He palmed the divot in his thigh, trying to bring some relief to the bone-deep pain, but to no avail. Glancing to his side, he saw Sansa peacefully slumbering on, seemingly unaffected by the chill the ice storm heralded. Her hair was wild about her head, like a mane of flames. Sandor couldn’t help but smile, half drunk on the sight of her. It hadn’t really settled for him that he was welcome in her home, let alone her bed, and he feared that at any moment he could break this fragile happiness they had found. He winced in pain, his ministrations doing more ill than good, and tucked his hand behind his head.

Sandor tilted his gaze toward Sansa, his eyes tracing her rosy lips, parted slightly as a contented sigh passed through. The smile hadn’t faded, and he felt an unfamiliar ache in his jaw. His free hand drifted toward the warmth coloring her cheeks, gently brushing over her freckle peppered skin.  His touch seemed to rouse her, so he backed his hand away, not wanting to wake her just yet. Sansa pouted slightly before she let out a breath and relaxed again. It had all been so easy, he realized then. His greatest obstacle to being by her side had been the buggering green boys at the gate, aside from all the years between the Blackwater and now.

He knew she had lost her faith, at least the inclination to prayer, as he had yet to see her in a moment of pious contemplation since their reunion. He knew she couldn’t possibly believe in the songs anymore; bards never sang true about the kind of nightmares Sansa had lived through. He wondered what Sansa believed in now. Sandor had found the only truism in his existence was the reliability of his strength and aptitude. Sure, he sometimes found salvation from his ills at the bottom of his cups, but he had come to see the full cost of drink. His hand absently palmed his thigh again, as if affirming the price exacted by his favorite vice. He knew that whatever was happening between him and Sansa, as perfect as it felt now, could disappear into the ether quicker than it had developed. Like silk through his fingers, he feared just how easily she could slip out of his grasp. The smile faded from his face, wondering to whom he should pray, to whom he should attempt to show his worth. For lack of a higher power, he decided to keep his supplications at the feet of the only goddess he could believe in.

Sandor’s hand found her face again, ready to break the spell of her dreams, his thumbs dragging over her lips gently. Sansa smiled, arching into him as she stretched and scooted closer to him across the bed. Her mouth closed over the tip of her thumb, her tongue flicking over the pad as her eyes fluttered open.

“Little bird,” he said, pleadingly. He surprised even himself at the lack of desire he felt at the present moment. Exhaustion and pain were great distractions to her beauty just then and he settled for taking her in his arms. He even began to blame his age, but he stopped himself there. _Not just yet, old dog_.  “Just let me hold you awhile.” Sandor felt her tiny talons drag against his bare back as she burrowed her face into his chest, humming as she rubbed her nose against him. As he was so often want to do, he threaded his hands through her hair, contributing to her disheveled state.

“Have you been up long?” She chirped, after some moments of silence.  He shook his head, rubbing her hair through his fingers. Sansa tilted her head into his touch, mewling like a kitten. Sandor brought her head towards him with his hands, placing a kiss just below her ear in the hollow of her jaw. “Sandor…” She sounded breathless and he found himself stirring from the fog of his aching leg as three small knocks sounded at the door. They groaned in unison, Sandor rolling away from her as she rose to find something appropriate to speaking with her girl. “I will ask Magda to bring a tray, but is there anything you’d like? A bath? Wine?” She still had her back to him as she shrugged the robe from the night before over her shoulders. He missed the milky, slender muscles of her back as soon as she was covered.

“Just something to eat would be fine, little bird.” When she turned to face him again, her eyes drifted to his hand, absently working his leg. Sandor froze, normalizing his touch to seem less concentrated. Sansa merely knit her brows, the corners of her mouth falling. She knotted the robe and crossed to the door.

Sandor had never wanted to appear weak in his life, never allowed anyone to believe him a victim. But unlike the map of scars that covered his face, the hole in his leg was constantly screaming in pain. Somedays the scream was faint, buried under his responsibilities and routine, and others like today were deafening. He watched Sansa as she whispered to her maid through the crack in the door, looking back at him over her shoulder once. He scowled. He didn’t want her asking for anything for his pain, didn’t want anyone to know he was in her bed let alone in pain in her bed. Sansa closed the door with a soft click and padded back to the bed swiftly. She leaned toward him, pressing her palms on the mattress beside him. “Are you in a great deal of pain?” Her face was a mask of concern as she peered into his eyes, looking for something that made him uneasy in his eyes.

“Everyday, little bird.” Sandor could have lied to her, but he had no reason or desire to do so. She already knew the truth behind his greatest weakness, what good would sugarcoating his leg do. Sansa smiled sadly, offering him a small nod before placing a kiss on his lips. It was soft, sweet, and warm and touched him more deeply than the burning kisses of the night before. When she pulled away, her face appeared brighter and she smiled over her shoulder as she disappeared behind the ornate screen in the corner. He could hear her washing up as he watched the obscure flashing of her ivory skin through the beautiful wooden partition. No sooner than she had finished washing up did the familiar knocking return to the door and she reappeared in a sleeping shift and the robe, a decidedly more proper state of dress. He rose to take her lead and wash up himself, catching her hand with a gentle squeeze as they passed. The blush that crept up her neck made him laugh softly, always amazed at how easy it was to make her flush.

He heard the scurrying of Sansa’s maid as she brought in what sounded like many trays and he wondered with a grin what feast the little bird had ordered for them. Magda spoke in hushed tones, but Sandor could faintly hear the girl asking after her lady’s well-being. Sansa’s response was much quieter, but the gasp and laughter that followed made him roll his eyes good-naturedly. When he was sure the girl had scurried away, Sandor re-emerged from behind the partition, the ample spread of dishes across the table of her solar evidence of the little bird’s nesting.

“Gossiping with the help, little bird?” Sandor tsked at her as he shook his head, pulling on his small clothes and a tunic. “Best be careful, girl, you’ll have the whole castle buzzing by nightfall.”

Sansa scoffed, waving her hand dismissively at him. She beckoned him toward the table plopping down in a plush, upholstered chair.  He noticed the larger, sturdier chair that sat opposite hers. She gestured toward _his_ seat and he settled in across from her. Warmth spread through him, not merely from the renewed fire in the hearth, but the small cares she had taken for his comfort. As if sensing his thoughts, she rose quickly, moving toward another tray left just inside the door on a small table. She was carrying a wineskin and a potted earthenware jar.

“No wine for me, Sansa.” He shook his head at the skin she carried, and she shot him a confused look. Without another word, she leaned over him, placing the skin on the puckered wound of his leg. The skin had warm water in it and he gasped as the heat registered against his skin. He let his head fall back against the frame of the chair and couldn’t help but note the soft look she gave him as she draped the fur hanging from the chair over his lap. He thought about scolding her for wasting her energy on his comfort, snapping as a defense for the weakness he was displaying in front of her, but she deserved none of it. And it felt damn good being taken care of by a beautiful woman, besides. Sansa smiled sweetly at him, contented by his relaxed slump, pushing his hair out of his face. He covered her hand with his, pressing a kiss into her palm. “Thank you.”

Sansa merely nodded, brushing her knuckles against his cheek, before settling back in across from him. She tapped the top of the little green pot as if to say, “for later.” Sandor nodded, no stranger to pain alleviating poultices. He watched as her eyes grew large at the many offerings on the plate before her. Grinning, she broke the hunk of brown bread in half, dipping it into the running yolk of a coddled egg. “I am not sure I’ve ever been so _hungry_.” Sandor chuckled as he watched her eyes roll closed, every bite registering as more delicious across her face.

“Good,” he replied, digging in to a rasher of bacon before smearing soft cheese on his own heel of bread. “You’re too skinny as is.”

“Is that so?” She feigned offense, smoothing her hands over her stomach and thighs. “You seemed to like the way I look last night.”

“Aye,” he nodded his agreement. He certainly did like the way she looked, but he also knew how her curves would soften and swell when she settled into a healthy weight. “But I know you’ve not been taking care of yourself as you should. As good as you’ve been to me...” Sansa opened her mouth to protest, but he merely raised his hand to stop her. “You’re beautiful and far too perfect for the likes of me. I only want to see you well.”

 Sansa cocked an eyebrow at him, but nodded as she greedily wiped the egg dish clean with the remainder of her bread. He smiled at her unladylike table manners, watching as she licked a bit of yolk from her thumb. She blushed again when she felt his gaze upon her. He wondered if this is what is was like to be _truly_ married, something he had never given much consideration before, having seen his fair share of loveless, political unions at court. He knew what he felt for her, but was reluctant to name it to himself or to her. He wasn’t entirely convinced they could ever be anything more than paramours, a reality that still brought him happiness. He didn’t dare think that a princess could possibly love him, but he didn’t much feel like worrying about all that now. Sandor wished right then for the storm to last forever just so he’d never have to leave her solar again.


	14. If You Always Get Up Late, You'll Never Be On Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting the next chapter...I'll cite all the usual excuses: holidays, work, life...you know how it goes. I hope y'all still love me... :)

_The ice fractured like glass under her hurried footfalls, sending shocks of pain to her heel through the soles of her soft boots. The snow had glazed over as the night enveloped the woods in frigid darkness. If it weren’t for the moon shining brightly against the glassine surface, Sansa would have no idea where to turn. As it was, the paths she thought she knew from a lifetime of playing and racing through the Wolfswood were lost to her. There wasn’t enough time to make better decisions. She could still hear the anguished screaming of the countless men who would fall to defend Winterfell, her home._

_Sansa’s labored breath froze in silvery clouds before her. Pausing only for a moment, her back pressed against the wide girth of an ancient tree, she wished for nothing more than to melt into the rough bark and leave the violence and the Long Night behind. Casting brief glances around her, Sansa could make out a small shed used for drying and smoking the meat the hunters brought back to her keep. She pushed off the tree without a second thought and made for the simple structure, a faint wisp of smoke curling from the crude chimney poking out through the straw thatched roof._

_Sansa tried to ignore the sound of more practiced strides behind her, keeping her mind fixed solely on the shed before her. It was just within reach and Sansa knew that her plan died once she made it inside, but she could only hope to find something to combat the dead soldier that had followed her into these darkened woods._

_Sansa had been so close. She could nearly touch the weathered timber frame when her foot found a cruelly placed root, twisted above the earth like an arm reaching from the grave. She collapsed with a painful thud, bracing her fall with her outstretched arms, sending bolts of fiery pain shooting up her arms to match the burning ache paralyzing her twisted ankle. Rolling onto her back, the initial shock of the fall finally abated, and she remembered her urgency, struggling to lift herself up onto her palms. She fell back onto her elbow, pain coursing through her muscles as thick as the blood in her veins. Giving in to her body’s betrayal, Sansa fell back, hoping against all odds and praying to whatever Gods still saw fit to protect a Stark, to blend in to the landscape around her._

_Several quiet moments passed, and Sansa had almost let herself believe that danger had passed over her, but the distinct sound of footfalls approaching her prone form set her heart to thundering once again. Her pursuer approached calm and confident, closing the distance quickly, while remaining out of sight behind the tree line. Sansa’s mind was spinning, a fist of anxiety closing its icy claw around her heart, each breath she drew from the icy night around her beating back the darkness threatening to invade her consciousness at any moment._

_From behind the massive tree she had found cover from mere moments before, a lank figure stepped out into the darkness. His alabaster skin emanated its own light, rivaled only by the heavy moon above. His eyes, bluer than Sansa’s own Tully inheritance, glimmered like sapphires with a cruelty unrivaled by any monster she’d ever known. And the girl had known a few. At a painfully casual pace, the tall man, if Sansa could even be certain he was a man, was nearing. As a last effort for self-preservation, Sansa grasped all about her, seeking anything she might use in her defense, a small victory found in pushing herself up to a seated position, inching backwards until her back hit against the cold comfort of the smoke shack._

_He had once been a man, Sansa felt certain of that, though she could sense his time spent undead far outweighed that spent amongst the living. Power radiated from his limber body, muscled in its own terrifying way, as he seemed to glide towards. Frictionless, ice moving over ice. Sansa knew then that a warrior was a warrior, even in death. She noted the bony protrusions ringing the top of his head, a crown of death. The Night's King, a familiar voice whispered inside her mind._

_Her back against the shed, her hands free from any form of protection, Sansa resigned herself to her fate. In a few strides he was upon her, kneeling before her, fixing her with his icy blue stare. Sansa was unsure why he didn’t just kill her already, but she found herself curiously calm as he appraised her form. His skin was like frost on a cold window pane, a shroud of stark white stretched and cracking over a map of blue veins. Sansa stilled her breathing as he lifted a finger toward her, a frigid and bony extension of himself. A smile seemed to turn the corners of his somber, undead mouth, turning her stomach with fright. The cold touch fell upon the top of her breast, the milky skin that covered her heart. He leaned toward her, his face a mere hand’s width from her own._

_His finger dug deeper into her flesh and without another sound, his lips claimed hers and drew her last breath into his body, leaving her flesh cold and blue as the ice she sat upon._

_“My Queen…”_

 

Arya awoke with a strangled, breathless cry, her hand rubbing at the phantom pain that lingered in her chest. After a moment, her breathing calmed and she found herself on a straw pallet, very much alive and swaying faintly as _The Autumn Maid_ rolled upon the waves. Her journey from White Harbour had been uneventful thus far, but even as she felt the dream evaporate from her mind, she could not help but feel deeply unsettled.

With Nymeria, Arya had learned to tell the difference between wolf dreams and wolf warging and knew that what had just transpired was merely a dream. But whether or not that dream would come to pass was entirely another matter. She had never wanted to send a raven so bad in her life.

Dragging on her stained and rumpled clothing, Arya ascended to the deck of the ship, glad for the bite of freezing air on her cheeks and the spray of faint mist that seemed to chase the last bit of dream fog from her. She gripped the railing, swinging her gaze across the horizon, rewarded by the faint outline of a great city manifesting from the ethereal haze of the sea. She knew that her trials had merely begun, that landing in the capital meant becoming a Queenslayer and defeating the Mountain. No small task, but she would be rid of the list of names she chanted as if it were the thread that kept the fabric of her being together.

Jaime had given her quite the upper hand, laying out the chain of events that would need to transpire for her to be successful. She would need to first vanquish Qyburn, the key to gaining Cersei’s trust and perhaps the only way to know how to take down the man known as Robert Strong. Arya felt a pang of guilt at that, knowing that crossing that name from her list left the Hound’s lifelong challenge unmet, though he now seemed contented to be in her sister’s presence. _Sansa_.  Arya absently rubbed at the skin of her chest again, still feeling the claiming touch of the Night's King. She wanted to believe that a nightmare could truly be just that, but the changes wrought in Bran beyond the Wall gave her reason to be anxious. She would send a raven just as soon as she had Qyburn’s face and resolved to think of a way to convey her fears to Sansa.

Arya exhaled fully, her breath hanging in the humid sea air, her eyes fixed on the coast. Two days and she would be back in King’s Landing. Two days and she would be winding amongst the streets her family had traveled down all those years ago with the King and her father. A party of ghosts riding into the depths of the seven hells.

Arya took a grounding breath and squared her shoulders. A hand unlike her own drifted before her eyes, touching the wrinkled skin, soft and fat. She had forgotten she wore the face of an older man, no one, merely a girl’s disguise. She would take the dream as a warning and act accordingly, she could not dwell. A girl would still have her vengeance. A girl would not sleep until the Lions had repaid their debts to House Stark.


	15. Put the Sounds of Your House in a Song

After the ice storm, everything changed.

The weight of the ice had brought down massive lengths of the ancient trees surrounding Winterfell and just about every set of able hands was set to work on cleaning up the grounds and repairing the many broken parts of the roof. Sansa had her hands full seeing to the blue lipped, frozen peasants that managed to make their way from their wildling camps or Wintertown hovels. Sandor had taken the opportunity to organize the poor souls that seemed unable to discern their heads from their arses when lacking instruction. To Maester Sam, he gave all the wiry young boys who could barely keep their heads up let alone lift anything. He took all the bullish young men to clear the downed boughs.

Neither slept very much in the week that followed, but they always managed to find each other just in time to collapse on whoever’s pallet was closest. They ate standing at the long wooden table in the bustling kitchens, marred by generations of use. They were mostly silent, finding connection in shared smiles and brushing elbows. On the few occasions either could come up for air, Sansa found herself plucked from the ether by a strong, yet gentle, grasp. His muscled arm would lick out from the darkness, eliciting a gasp, always stirring a bit of fear in the pit of her stomach. But the surprise became familiar, and Sansa found her surprised gasps transformed into hushed giggles.

Sandor was grateful that the little bird’s maid was the quiet type, sending him knowing smiles and averted eyes. Magda knew her lady awoke wrapped in his arms more often than not, and aside from idle chatter, no one seemed to pay them too much mind. Not a single head turned to gape after them; it seemed the new North truly had no interest in the gossip and courtesy that defined Southron tradition. Half her court seemed to be comprised of wildlings, after all. Sansa was more open with her affections than he could have ever expected, twining their arms together as they traversed the halls, leaning close to his side to whisper sly japes into his ears. She was his friend, his greatest confidant. His everything.

So, when he saw what she had planned on the dais that morning, he was certain she had finally gone mad. Sansa had taken her mother’s place upon the platform, favoring Catelyn’s heavy oaken seat, resplendent with leaping trout and racing wolves over the minimalist weirwood chair her father sat, a single direwolf sigil chiseled from the back. Jon had reluctantly taken that seat and in his absence, the somber chair rested to the left of the hearth. This particular morning saw Sansa directing a few sweaty squires as to the placement of a very large chair with a very yellow cushion.

“No.” He knew exactly what she was up to. The chair came down to the floor with a clumsy thud as Sansa turned her discerning eye from her lackeys to him. “Bloody hells woman, _no_.” He had all but snarled at her, but Sansa merely smiled, and he felt instantly disarmed. He squirmed while she merely cocked her brow and shrugged. _Cocky little bird_.

“You will sit court with me, my lord.”

“Not a bloody lord.”

Sansa shrugged again, shooting a playful wink. “Consider it practice.”

Before her could ask what that was even supposed to mean, she was pulling him to his new place at her side. He was well versed in _standing_ court, looking at the hairy skulls of lords and ladies, princes and queens, turning over the million-and-one ways to kill his brother in his mind. Engaging in court was something else altogether. He knew enough how politics worked, learning from the battlefield up into the chamber of the small council. He knew how to listen when it counted and keep his mouth shut; but actually participating in the day to day affairs of the small folk and free people seemed terrifying. And boring.

“My place is in the yard,” he replied evenly, then, checking his tone amongst her people flitting around them, “ _my lady_.” Sansa’s frown proved she liked his chirping even less than he did hers.

“Yes, you command my garrison, but your true place is by my side and in my ear. You will know the goings on of this keep and stay informed of our strengths and weaknesses, as quickly as they may change. There have been no ravens from Jon nor Arya, and Bran has not come to me in my dreams or in the Godswood. They have left me here, to pick up the broken pieces of the North, to blend those from behind and beyond the wall. They have left me to rule.” Her voice carried a strength he saw her settling into daily and her newfound confidence was not lost on him. “I cannot do that alone.” Her tone was strong, but Sandor detected the plea all the same. “You have survived Robert’s Rebellion, the War of the Five Kings, and now _we_ must survive the Long Night. You have persisted where so many I have loved have perished.” Another time in their lives, she would have shrunk away from the steady, leveling gaze he aimed at her. Another time, he might have openly mocked her for placing her trust in him. In another life, he would have stalked off scowling, only to drink himself unconscious to prove himself right.

But before him stood a proud woman, the lady of her house, the last true wolf of Winterfell, beseeching him to take her side. In his wildest dreams, cloudy with lust and Dornish wine within the walls of the Red Keep nor in his idle prayers while burying the dead that washed upon the shores of the Quiet Isle did Sandor ever allow himself to think that Sansa Stark would open her world to him. Often, he comforted himself with the thought that he had not been the worst man she crossed paths with and that his value as a swordsman would surely keep his head where he liked it, should he ever make it to Winterfell. He was never particularly good with words and accepting praise from those who held his leash, but Sansa favored the carrot over the stick, and so he softened his face and let out a heavy sigh of resignation.

Sansa nodded her head toward the chair, indicating he should assess her gift, taking his reticence for silent acquiescence. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave his head a slight nod, earning a broad smile and pretty flush upon her face. Giving his shoulder a not-so-gentle push, she turned him to face the expertly upholstered seat.

“I had Maren make it in your house colors, but offered no sigil,” Sansa explained, not giving him the chance to launch into his familiar rhetoric. “You, Sandor Clegane, can be your own man here. We’ve no use for knights in the North, just honorable men who can fight as well as they boast.” Her words and her gentle touch at the crook of his arm led him to the chair and he felt himself lower onto the seat, looking out upon the empty hall, envisioning the world from the little bird’s view. A spill of red hair over his shoulder distracted him and the feel over her lips over the edge of his ear made him shiver. “I need a man who can protect his lady love and all she holds close.”

“Easy, girl.” He caught a lock of her fiery tresses and gave her a tug. “I’ll help you with the bloody smallfolk, direct your sorties, and protect your _maidenly_ virtue…” He shot her a wink at that. “I will do my best to keep my mouth shut in matters not pertaining to the safety of Winterfell and keep you safe from those who wish to do you harm.” If he were a different man, he would lay down his sword and swear it.

“I ask no vows from you, Clegane,” she whispered into the ruin of his ear, her honeyed hair engulfing him in her flame. Sansa’s breath was warm against his neck and he felt a rush of lust surge though his veins, warming and chilling his skin at the same time. He knew their proximity and familiarity were unbecoming for a lady of Sansa’s status, but she remained a hairs breadth away from his skin and he found he could not bring himself to pull away. “I know you like to keep _your_ lady satisfied.”

Sandor could have sworn he felt her teeth graze his neck, but the thrumming of blood was too strong in his head and he found himself as dizzy as if he had been in his cups. Sansa did not look back at him as she walked away, engaging a young servant girl who was rushing past her. She need not turn, he knew what her smile looked like when she had him where she wanted him, and he found himself utterly content to be kept. Still upon the dais, perched upon the chair fit for a lord, he watched as she made her way through the busy hall. There was no soul Sansa did not greet with a smile, no worker she did not thank with her embrace, no child she did not stop to lend motherly attention. Sandor felt the fire of his lust collapse in the absence of her body over him, replaced by a radiant warmth filling his leaden limbs with something more complete, something he had yet to name. Sandor knew the songs well enough to know what the fools would call it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing but gratitude to the wealth of inspiration provided by GRRM. My own little wish for how the story could progress...


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